THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 

RUE  E.    NICHOLS 


837 


'GO   SLOW,   OLD   MAN;   GO   SLOW" 

— A  Millionaire   of  Rough-and-Ready 


"ARGONAUT    EDITION"    OF 
THE    WORKS    OF    BRET    HARTE 


A  WAIF   OF    THE    PLAINS 

TN  THE  CARQUINEZ  WOODS 
SNOW    BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S 
A    MILLIONAIRE    OF  ROUGH-AND-READY 

BY 
BRET     HARTE 


ILLUSTRATED 


P.    F.   COLLIER    y   SON 

NEW    YORK 


PS 


mo 


Putlitktd  under  tptrial  arrangement  with 
tht  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


COPYRIGHT  1883 
BY  HOUGHTON.  MIFFLIN   &   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT  1886,  1887  AND  1890 
BY  BRET  HARTE 
All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  MILLIONAIRE  OF  ROUGH-AND-READY         .         .         .       3 

DEVIL'S  FORD 83 

A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 159 

IN   THE   CARQUINEZ  WOODS 265 

SNOW-BOUND  AT  EAGLE'S  .  375 


A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH 
AND-READY 


PROLOGUE 

THERE  was  no  mistake  this  time:  he  had  struck  gold 
at  last ! 

It  had  lain  there  before  him  a  moment  ago — a  mis 
shapen  piece  of  brown-stained  quartz,  interspersed  with 
dull  yellow  metal;  yielding  enough  to  have  allowed  the 
points  of  his  pick  to  penetrate  its  honeycombed  recesses, 
yet  heavy  enough  to  drop  from  the  point  of  his  pick  as  he 
endeavored  to  lift  it  from  the  red  earth. 

He  was  seeing  all  this  plainly,  although  he  found  him 
self,  he  knew  not  why,  at  some  distance  from  the  scene 
of  his  discovery,  his  heart  foolishly  beating,  his  breath 
impotently  hurried.  Yet  he  was  walking  slowly  and 
vaguely;  conscious  of  stopping  and  staring  at  the  land 
scape,  which  no  longer  looked  familiar  to  him.  He  was 
hoping  for  some  instinct  or  force  of  habit  to  recall  him  to 
himself;  yet  when  he  saw  a  neighbor  at  work  in  an 
adjacent  claim,  he  hesitated,  and  then  turned  his  back 
upon  him.  Yet  only  a  moment  before  he  had  thought  of 
running  to  him,  saying,  "By  Jingo !  I've  struck  it,"  or 
"D — n  it,  old  man,  I've  got  it" ;  but  that  moment  had 
passed,  and  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  scarce 
raise  his  voice,  or,  if  he  did,  the  ejaculation  would  appear 
forced  and  artificial.  Neither  could  he  go  over  to  him 
coolly  and  tell  his  good  fortune ;  and,  partly  from  this 
strange  shyness,  and  partly  with  a  hope  that  another  sur 
vey  of  the  treasure  might  restore  him  to  natural  expres 
sion,  he  walked  back  to  his  tunnel. 

Yes ;  it  was  there !  No  mere  "pocket"  or  "deposit,"  but 

3 


4  A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

a  part  of  the  actual  vein  he  had  been  so  long  seeking. 
It  was  there,  sure  enough,  lying  beside  the  pick  and  the 
debris  of  the  "face"  of  the  vein  that  he  had  exposed  suf 
ficiently,  after  the  first  shock  of  discovery,  to  assure  him 
self  of  the  fact  and  the  permanence  of  his  fortune.     It 
was   there,   and   with   it   the   refutation   of   his   enemies' 
sneers   the  corroboration  of  his  friends'  belief,  the  practi 
cal  demonstration  of  his  own  theories,  the  reward  of  his 
patient  labors.     It  was  there,  sure  enough.     But,  some 
how  he  not  only  failed  to  recall  the  first  joy  of  discovery, 
but  was  conscious  of  a  vague  sense  of  responsibility  and 
unrest.    It  was,  no  doubt,  an  enormous  fortune  to  a  man 
in  his  circumstances:  perhaps  it  meant  a  couple  of  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars,  or  more,  judging  from  the  value 
of  the  old  Martin  lead,  which  was  not  as  rich  as  this,  but 
it  required  to  be  worked  constantly  and  judiciously.     It 
was  with   a  decided   sense   of  uneasiness  that  he   again 
sought  the  open  sunlight  of  the  hillside.     His  neighbor 
was  still  visible  on  the  adjacent  claim;  but  he  had  ap 
parently  stopped  working,  and  was  contemplatively  smok 
ing  a  pipe  under  a  large  pine-tree.     For  an  instant  he 
envied  him  his  apparent  contentment.     He  had  a  sudden 
fierce  and  inexplicable  desire  to  go  over  to  him  and  ex 
asperate   his   easy   poverty   by   a   revelation   of   his   own 
new-found    treasure.      But    even   that    sensation    quickly 
passed,  and   left   him   staring  blankly   at   the   landscape 

again.  , 

As  soon  as  he  had  made  his  discovery  known,  and 
settled  its  value,  he  would  send  for  his  wife  and  her 
children  in  the  States.  He  would  build  a  fine  house  on 
the  opposite  hillside,  if  she  would  consent  to  it,  unless 
she  preferred,  for  the  children's  sake,  to  live  in  ban 
Francisco.  A  sense  of  a  loss  of  independence-of  a 
change  of  circumstances  that  left  him  no  longer  his  own 
master— began  to  perplex  him,  in  the  midst  of  his  bright 
est  projects.  Certain  other  relations  with  other  members 
of  his  family,  which  had  lapsed  by  absence  and  his  in 
significance,  must  now  be  taken  up  anew.  He  must  d 
something  for  his  sister  Jane,  for  his  brother  William, 
for  his  wife's  poor  connections.  It  would  be  unfair  t 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY  5 

him  to  say  that  he  contemplated  those  things  with  any 
other  instinct  than  that  of  generosity ;  yet  he  was  con 
scious  of  being  already  perplexed  and  puzzled. 

Meantime,  however,  the  neighbor  had  apparently  fin 
ished  his  pipe,  and,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  it,  rose 
suddenly,  and  ended  any  further  uncertainty  of  their 
meeting  by  walking  over  directly  towards  him.  The 
treasure-finder  advanced  a  few  steps  on  his  side,  and  then 
stopped  irresolutely. 

"Hollo,  Slinn !"  said  the  neighbor,  confidently. 

"Hollo,  Masters,"  responded  Slinn,  faintly.  From  the 
sound  of  the  two  voices  a  stranger  might  have  mistaken 
their  relative  condition.  "What  in  thunder  are  you  moon 
ing  about  for  ?  What's  up  ?"  Then,  catching  sight  of 
Slinn's  pale  and  anxious  face,  he  added  abruptly,  "Are  you 
sick?" 

Slinn  was  on  the  point  of  telling  him  his  good  fortune, 
but  stopped.  The  unlucky  question  confirmed  his  con 
sciousness  of  his  physical  and  mental  disturbance,  and  he 
dreaded  the  ready  ridicule  of  his  companion.  He  would 
tell  him  later;  Masters  need  not  know  when  he  had  made 
the  strike.  Besides,  in  his  present  vagueness,  he  shrank 
from  the  brusque,  practical  questioning  that  would  be 
sure  to  follow  the  revelation  to  a  man  of  Masters'  tem 
perament. 

"I'm  a  little  giddy  here,"  he  answered,  putting  his  hand 
to  his  head,  "and  I  thought  I'd  knock  off  until  I  was 
better." 

Masters  examined  him  with  two  very  critical  gray 
eyes.  "Tell  ye  what,  old  man ! — if  you  don't  quit  this 
dog-goned  foolin'  of  yours  in  that  God-forsaken  tunnel 
you'll  get  loony !  Times  you  get  so  tangled  up  in  fol- 
lerin'  that  blind  lead  o'  yours  you  ain't  sensible !" 

Here  was  the  opportunity  to  tell  him  all,  and  vindicate 
the  justice  of  his  theories!  But  he  shrank  from  it  again; 
and  now,  adding  to  the  confusion,  was  a  singular  sense 
of  dread  at  the  mental  labor  of  explanation.  He  only 
smiled  painfully,  and  began  to  move  away.  "Look  you !" 
said  Masters,  peremptorily,  "ye  want  about  three  fingers 
of  straight  whiskey  to  set  you  right,  and  you've  got  to 


6  A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH- AND  READY 

take  it  with  me.  D — n  it,  man,  it  may  be  the  last  drink 
we  take  together !  Don't  look  so  skeered !  I  mean — I 
made  up  my  mind  about  ten  minutes  ago  to  cut  the  whole 

d d  thing,  and  light  out  for  fresh  diggings.  I'm  sick 

of  getting  only  grub  wages  out  o'  this  hill.  So  that's  what 
I  mean  by  saying  it's  the  last  drink  you  and  me'll  take 
together.  You  know  my  ways :  sayin'  and  doin'  with  me's 
the  same  thing." 

It  was  true.  Slinn  had  often  envied  Masters'  prompt 
ness  of  decision  and  resolution.  But  he  only  looked  at 
the  grim  face  of  his  interlocutor  with  a  feeble  sense  of 
relief.  H£  was  going.  And  he,  Slinn,  would  not  have  to 
explain  anything! 

He  murmured  something  about  having  to  go  over  to 
the  settlement  on  business.  He  dreaded  lest  Masters 
should  insist  upon  going  into  the  tunnel. 

"I  suppose  you  want  to  mail  that  letter,"  said  Masters, 
drily.  "The  mail  don't  go  till  to-morrow,  so  you've  got 
time  to  finish  it,  and  put  it  in  an  envelope." 

Following  the  direction  of  Masters'  eyes,  Slinn  looked 
down  and  saw,  to  his  utter  surprise,  that  he  was  holding 
an  unfinished  pencilled  note  in  his  hand.  How  it  came 
there,  when  he  had  written  it,  he  could  not  tell ;  he  dimly 
remembered  that  one  of  his  first  impulses  was  to  write  to 
his  wife,  but  that  he  had  already  done  so  he  had  for 
gotten.  He  hastily  concealed  the  note  in  his  breast 
pocket,  with  a  vacant  smile.  Masters  eyed  him  half 
contemptuously,  half  compassionately. 

"Don't  forget  yourself  and  drop  it  in  some  hollow  tree 
for  a  letter-box,"  he  said.  "Well — so  long ! — since  you 
won't  drink.  Take  care  of  yourself,"  and,  turning  on 
his  heel,  Masters  walked  away. 

Slinn  watched  him  as  he  crossed  over  to  his  abandoned 
claim,  saw  him  gather  his  few  mining  utensils,  strap  his 
blanket  over  his  back,  lift  his  hat  on  his  long-handled 
shovel  as  a  token  of  farewell,  and  then  stride  light-heart 
edly  over  the  ridge. 

He  was  alone  now  with  his  secret  and  his  treasure. 
The  only  man  in  the  world  who  knew  of  the  exact  posi 
tion  of  his  tunnel  had  gone  away  forever.  It  was  not 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY  7 

likely  that  this  chance  companion  of  a  few  weeks  would 
ever  remember  him  or  the  locality  again;  he  would  now 
leave  his  treasure  alone — for  even  a  day  perhaps — until 
he  had  thought  out  some  plan  and  sought  out  some  friend 
in  whom  to  confide.  His  secluded  life,  the  singular  hab 
its  of  concentration  which  had  at  last  proved  so  success 
ful  had,  at  the  same  time,  left  him  few  acquaintances  and 
no  associates.  And  in  all  his  well-laid  plans  and  patiently- 
digested  theories  for  finding  the  treasure,  the  means  and 
methods  of  working  it  and  disposing  of  it  had  never 
entered. 

And  now,  at  the  hour  when  he  most  needed  his  facul 
ties,  what  was  the  meaning  of  this  strange  benumbing  of 
them ! 

Patience !  He  only  wanted  a  little  rest — a  little  time  to 
recover  himself.  There  was  a  large  boulder  under  a  tree 
in  the  highway  of  the  settlement — a  sheltered  spot  where 
he  had  often  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  stage-coach. 
He  would  go  there,  and  when  he  was  sufficiently  rested 
and  composed  he  would  go  on. 

Nevertheless,  on  his  way  he  diverged  and  turned  into 
the  woods,  for  no  other  apparent  purpose  than  to  find  a 
hollow  tree.  "A  hollow  tree."  Yes !  that  was  what 
Masters  had  said ;  he  remembered  it  distinctly ;  and  some 
thing  was  to  be  done  there,  but  what  it  was,  or  why  it 
should  be  done,  he  could  not  tell.  However,  it  was  done, 
and  very  luckily,  for  his  limbs  could  scarcely  support 
him  further,  and  reaching  that  boulder  he  dropped  upon 
it  like  another  stone. 

And  now,  strange  to  say,  the  uneasiness  and  perplexity 
which  had  possessed  him  ever  since  he  had  stood  before 
his  revealed  wealth  dropped  from  him  like  a  burden  laid 
upon  the  wayside.  A  measureless  peace  stole  over  him, 
in  which  visions  of  his  new-found  fortune,  no  longer  a 
trouble  and  perplexity,  but  crowned  with  happiness  and 
blessing  to  all  around  him,  assumed  proportions  far  be 
yond  his  own  weak,  selfish  plans.  In  its  even-handed 
benefaction,  his  wife  and  children,  his  friends  and  rela 
tions,  even  his  late  poor  companion  of  the  hillside,  met 
and  moved  harmoniously  together;  in  its  far-reaching 


8  A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

consequences  there  was  only  the  influence  of  good.  It 
was  not  strange  that  this  poor  finite  mind  should  never 
have  conceived  the  meaning  of  the  wealth  extended  to 
him ;  or  that  conceiving  it  he  should  faint  and  falter  under 
the  revelation.  Enough  that  for  a  few  minutes  he  must 
have  tasted  a  joy  of  perfect  anticipation  that  years  of 
actual  possession  might  never  bring. 

The  sun  seemed  to  go  down  in  a  rosy  dream  of  his 
own  happiness,  as  he  still  sat  there.  Later,  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  thickened  and  surrounded  him,  and  still  later 
fell  the  calm  of  a  quiet  evening  sky  with  far-spaced  pas 
sionless  stars,  that  seemed  as  little  troubled  by  what  they 
looked  upon  as  he  was  by  the  stealthy  creeping  life  in 
the  grasses  and  underbrush  at  his  feet.  The  dull  patter 
of  soft  little  feet  in  the  soft  dust  of  the  road,  the  gentle 
gleam  of  moist  and  wondering  little  eyes  on  the  branches 
and  in  the  mossy  edges  of  the  boulder,  did  not  disturb 
him.  He  sat  patiently  through  it  all,  as  if  he  had  not 
yet  made  up  his  mind. 

But  when  the  stage  came  with  the  flashing  sun  the 
next  morning,  and  the  irresistible  clamor  of  life  and 
action,  the  driver  suddenly  laid  his  four  spirited  horses 
on  their  haunches  before  the  quiet  spot.  The  express 
messenger  clambered  down  from  the  box,  and  approached 
what  seemed  to  be  a  heap  of  cast-off  clothes  upon  the 
boulder. 

"He  don't  seem  to  be  drunk,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  a 
querulous  interrogation  from  the  passengers.  "I  can't 
make  him  out.  His  eyes  are  open,  but  he  cannot  speak 
or  move.  Take  a  look  at  him,  Doc." 

A  rough  unprofessional-looking  man  here  descended 
from  the  inside  of  the  coach,  and,  carelessly  thrusting 
aside  the  other  curious  passengers,  suddenly  leant  over 
the  heap  of  clothes  in  a  professional  attitude. 

"He  is  dead,"  said  one  of  the  passengers. 

The  rough  man  let  the  passive  head  sink  softly  down 
again.  "No  such  luck  for  him,"  he  said  curtly,  but  not 
unkindly.  "It's  a  stroke  of  paralysis — and  about  as  big 
as  they  make  'em.  It's  a  toss-up  if  he  ever  speaks  or 
moves  again  as  long  as  he  lives." 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND  READY 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  Alvin  Mulracly  announced  his  intention  of  grow 
ing  potatoes  and  garden  "truck"  on  the  green  slopes  of 
Los  Gatos,  the  mining  community  of  that  region,  and  the 
adjacent  hamlet  of  "Rough-and-Ready,"  regarded  it  with 
the  contemptuous  indifference  usually  shown  by  those  ad 
venturers  towards  all  bucolic  pursuits.  There  was  cer 
tainly  no  active  objection  to  the  occupation  of  two 
hillsides,  which  gave  so  little  promise  to  the  prospector 
for  gold  that  it  was  currently  reported  that  a  single  pros 
pector,  called  "Slinn,"  had  once  gone  mad  or  imbecile 
through  repeated  failures.  The  only  opposition  came, 
incongruously  enough,  from  the  original  pastoral  owner 
of  the  soil,  one  Don  Ramon  Alvarado,  whose  claim  for 
seven  leagues  of  hill  and  valley,  including  the  now  pros 
perous  towns  of  Rough-and-Ready  and  Red  Dog,  was 
met  with  simple  derision  from  the  squatters  and  miners. 
"Looks  ez  ef  we  woz  goin'  to  travel  three  thousand  miles 

to  open  up  his  d d  old  wilderness,  and  then  pay  for 

the  increased  valoo  we  give  it — don't  it?  Oh,  yes,  cer 
tainly  !"  was  their  ironical  commentary.  Mulrady  might 
have  been  pardoned  for  adopting  this  popular  opinion ; 
but  by  an  equally  incongruous  sentiment,  peculiar,  how 
ever,  to  the  man,  he  called  upon  Don  Ramon,  and  actually 
offered  to  purchase  the  land,  or  "go  shares"  with  him  in 
the  agricultural  profits.  It  was  alleged  that  the  Don  was 
so  struck  with  this  concession  that  he  not  only  granted 
the  land,  but  struck  up  a  quaint  reserved  friendship  for 
the  simple-minded  agriculturist  and  his  family.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  this  intimacy  was  viewed 
by  the  miners  with  the  contempt  that  it  deserved.  They 
would  have  been  more  contemptuous,  however,  had  they 
known  the  opinion  that  Don  Ramon  entertained  of  their 
particular  vocation,  and  which  he  early  confided  to 
Mulrady. 

"They  are  savages  who  expect  to  reap  where  they  have 
not  sown;  to  take  out  of  the  earth  without  returning 
anything  to  it  but  their  precious  carcasses;  heathens, 


10  A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

who  worship  the  mere  stones  they  dig  up."  "And  was 
there  no  Spaniard  who  ever  dug  gold?"  asked  Mulrady, 
simply.  "Ah,  there  are  Spaniards  and  Moors,"  responded 
Don  Ramon,  sententiously.  "Gold  has  been  dug,  and  by 
caballeros;  but  no  good  ever  came  of  it.  There  were 
Alvarados  in  Sonora,  look  you,  who  had  mines  of  silver, 
and  worked  them  with  peons  and  mules,  and  lost  their 
money — a  gold  mine  to  work  a  silver  one — like  gentle 
men  !  But  this  grubbing  in  the  dirt  with  one's  fingers, 
that  a  litle  gold  may  stick  to  them,  is  not  for  caballeros. 
And  then,  one  says  nothing  of  the  curse." 

"The  curse !"  echoed  Mary  Mulrady,  with  youthful 
feminine  superstition.  "What  is  that?" 

"You  knew  not,  friend  Mulrady,  that  when  these  lands 
were  given  to  my  ancestors  by  Charles  V.,  the  Bishop 
of  Monterey  laid  a  curse  upon  any  who  should  desecrate 
them.  Good !  Let  us  see !  Of  the  three  Americanos 
who  founded  yonder  town,  one  was  shot,  another  died  of 
a  fever — poisoned,  you  understand,  by  the  soil — and 
the  last  got  himself  crazy  of  aguardiente.  Even  the 
scientifico,1  who  came  here  years  ago  and  spied  into  the 
trees  and  the  herbs :  he  was  afterwards  punished  for  his 
profanation,  and  died  of  an  accident  in  other  lands.  But," 
added  Don  Ramon,  with  grave  courtesy,  "this  touches  not 
yourself.  Through  me,  you  are  of  the  soil." 

Indeed,  it  would  seem  as  if  a  secure  if  not  a  rapid 
prosperity  was  the  result  of  Don  Ramon's  manorial  pat 
ronage.  The  potato  patch  and  market  garden  flourished 
exceedingly ;  the  rich  soil  responded  with  magnificent 
vagaries  of  growth ;  the  even  sunshine  set  the  seasons  at 
defiance  with  extraordinary  and  premature  crops.  The 
salt  pork  and  biscuit  consuming  settlers  did  not  allow 
their  contempt  of  Mulrady's  occupation  to  prevent  their 
profiting  by  this  opportunity  for  changing  their  diet.  The 
gold  they  had  taken  from  the  soil  presently  began  to  flow 
into  his  pockets  in  exchange  for  his  more  modest  treas 
ures.  The  little  cabin,  which  barely  sheltered  his  family 

1  Don  Ramon  probably  alluded  to  the  eminent  naturalist  Douglas,  who 
visited  California  before  the  gold  excitement,  and  died  of  an  accident  in  the 
Sandwich  Islands. 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          11 

— a  wife,  son,  and  daughter — was  enlarged,  extended, 
and  refitted,  but  in  turn  abandoned  for  a  more  pretentious 
house  on  the  opposite  hill.  A  whitewashed  fence  re 
placed  the  rudely-split  rails,  which  had  kept  out  the 
wilderness.  By  degrees,  the  first  evidences  of  cultivation 
— the  gashes  of  red  soil,  the  piles  of  brush  and  under 
growth,  the  bared  boulders,  and  heaps  of  stone — melted 
away,  and  were  lost  under  a  carpet  of  lighter  green, 
which  made  an  oasis  in  the  tawny  desert  of  wild  oats  on 
the  hillside.  Water  was  the  only  free  boon  denied  this 
Garden  of  Eden;  what  was  necessary  for  irrigation  had 
to  be  brought  from  a  mining  ditch  at  great  expense,  and 
was  of  insufficient  quantity.  In  this  emergency  Mulrady 
thought  of  sinking  an  artesian  well  on  the  sunny  slope 
beside  his  house;  not,  however,  without  serious  consulta 
tion  and  much  objection  from  his  Spanish  patron.  With 
great  austerity  Don  Ramon  pointed  out  that  this  trifling 
with  the  entrails  of  the  earth  was  not  only  an  indignity 
to  Nature  almost  equal  to  shaft-sinking  and  tunneling, 
but  was  a  disturbance  of  vested  interests.  "I  and  my 
fathers,  San  Diego  rest  them !"  said  Don  Ramon,  crossing 
himself,  "were  content  with  wells  and  cisterns,  filled  by 
Heaven  at  its  appointed  seasons;  the  cattle,  dumb  brutes 
though  they  were,  knew  where  to  find  water  when  they 
wanted  it.  But  thou  sayest  truly,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh, 
"that  was  before  streams  and  rain  were  choked  with 
hellish  engines,  and  poisoned  with  their  spume.  Go  on, 
friend  Mulrady,  dig  and  bore  if  thou  wilt,  but  in  a  seemly 
fashion,  and  not  with  impious  earthquakes  of  devilish 
gunpowder." 

With  this  concession  Alvin  Mulrady  began  to  sink  his 
first  artesian  shaft.  Being  debarred  the  auxiliaries  of 
steam  and  gunpowder,  the  work  went  on  slowly.  The 
market  garden  did  not  suffer  meantime,  as  Mulrady  had 
employed  two  Chinamen  to  take  charge  of  the  ruder 
tillage,  while  he  superintended  the  engineering  work  of 
the  well.  This  trifling  incident  marked  an  epoch  in  the 
social  condition  of  the  family.  Mrs.  Mulrady  at  once 
assumed  a  conscious  importance  among  her  neighbors. 
She  spoke  of  her  husband's  "men";  she  alluded  to  the 


12          A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

well  as  "the  works";  she  checked  the  easy  frontier  fa 
miliarity  of  her  customers  with  pretty  Mary  Mulrady, 
her  seventeen-year-old  daughter.  Simple  Alvin  Mulrady 
looked  with  astonishment  at  this  sudden  development  of 
the  germ  planted  in  all  feminine  nature  to  expand  in 
the  slightest  sunshine  of  prosperity.  "Look  yer,  Malviny; 
ain't  ye  rather  puttin'  on  airs  with  the  boys  that  want  to 
be  civil  to  Mamie  ?  Like  as  not  one  of  'em  may  be  makin' 
up  to  her  already."  "You  don't  mean  to  say,  Alvin 
Mulrady,"  responded  Mrs.  Mulrady,  with  sudden  severity, 
"that  you  ever  thought  of  givin'  your  daughter  to  a 
common  miner,  or  that  I'm  goin'  to  allow  her  to  marry 
out  of  our  own  set  ?"  "Our  own  set !"  echoed  Mulrady 
feebly,  blinking  at  her  in  astonishment,  and  then  glancing 
hurriedly  across  at  his  freckle-faced  son  and  the  two 
Chinamen  at  work  in  the  cabbages.  "Oh,  you  know  what 
I  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Mulrady  sharply ;  "the  set  that  we 
move  in.  The  Alvartdos  and  their  friends!  Doesn't  the 
old  Don  come  here  every  day,  and  ain't  his  son  the  right 
age  for  Mamie?  And  ain't  they  the  real  first  fam 
ilies  here — all  the  same  as  if  they  were  noblemen?  No, 
leave  Mamie  to  me,  and  keep  to  your  shaft ;  there  never 
was  a  man  yet  had  the  least  sabc  about  these  things,  or 
knew  what  was  due  to  his  family."  Like  most  of  his 
larger  minded,  but  feebler  equipped  sex,  Mulrady  was  too 
glad  to  accept  the  truth  of  the  latter  proposition,  which 
left  the  meannesses  of  life  to  feminine  manipulation,  and 
went  off  to  his  shaft  on  the  hillside.  But  during  that 
afternoon  he  was  perplexed  and  troubled.  He  was  too 
loyal  a  husband  not  to  be  pleased  with  this  proof  of  an 
unexpected  and  superior  foresight  in  his  wife,  although 
he  was,  like  all  husbands,  a  little  startled  by  it.  He  tried 
to  dismiss  it  from  his  mind.  But  looking  down  from  the 
hillside  upon  his  little  venture,  where  gradual  increase 
and  prosperity  had  not  been  beyond  his  faculties  to  con 
trol  and  understand,  he  found  himself  haunted  by  the 
more  ambitious  projects  of  his  helpmate.  From  his  own 
knowledge  of  men,  he  doubted  if  Don  Ramon,  any  more 
than  himself,  had  ever  thought  of  the  possibility  of  a 
matrimonial  connection  between  the  families.  He  doubted 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          13 

if  he  would  consent  to  it.  And  unfortunately  it  was 
this  very  doubt  that,  touching  his  own  pride  as  a  self- 
made  man,  made  him  first  seriously  consider  his  wife's 
proposition.  He  was  as  good  as  Don  Ramon,  any  day ! 
With  this  subtle  feminine  poison  instilled  in  his  veins, 
carried  completely  away  by  the  logic  of  his  wife's  illogical 
premises,  he  almost  hated  his  old  benefactor.  He  looked 
down  upon  the  little  Garden  of  Eden,  where  his  Eve 
had  just  tempted  him  with  the  fatal  fruit,  and  felt  a 
curious  consciousness  that  he  was  losing  its  simple  and 
innocent  enjoyment  forever. 

Happily,  about  this  time  Don  Ramon  died.  It  is  not 
probable  that  he  ever  knew  the  amiable  intentions  of 
Mrs.  Mulrady  in  regard  to  his  son,  who  now  succeeded 
to  the  paternal  estate,  sadly  partitioned  by  relatives  and 
lawsuits.  The  feminine  Mulradys  attended  the  funeral, 
in  expensive  mourning  from  Sacramento;  even  the  gen 
tle  Alvin  was  forced  into  ready-made  broadcloth,  which 
accented  his  good-natured  but  unmistakably  common 
presence.  Mrs.  Mulrady  spoke  openly  of  her  "loss"; 
declared  that  the  old  families  were  dying  out;  and  im 
pressed  the  wives  of  a  few  new  arrivals  at  Red  Dog  with 
the  belief  that  her  own  family  was  contemporary  with  the 
Alvarados,  and  that  her  husband's  health  was  far  from 
perfect.  She  extended  a  motherly  sympathy  to  the 
orphaned  Don  Caesar.  Reserved,  like  his  father,  in  nat 
ural  disposition,  he  was  still  more  gravely  ceremonious 
from  his  loss ;  and,  perhaps  from  the  shyness  of  an  evi 
dent  partiality  for  Mamie  Mulrady,  he  rarely  availed 
himself  of  her  mother's  sympathizing  hospitality.  But 
he  carried  out  the  intentions  of  his  father  by  consenting 
to  sell  to  Mulrady,  for  a  small  sum,  the  property  he  had 
leased.  The  idea  of  purchasing  had  originated  with  Mrs. 
Mulrady. 

"It'll  be  all  in  the  family,"  had  observed  that  astute 
lady,  "and  it's  better  for  the  looks  of  the  things  that  we 
shouldn't  be  his  tenants." 

It  was  only  a  few  weeks  later  that  she  was  startled 
by  hearing  her  husband's  voice  calling  her  from  the  hill 
side  as  he  rapidly  approached  the  house.  Mamie  was -in 


14          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

her  room  putting  on  a  new  pink  cotton  gown,  in  honor 
of  an  expected  visit  from  young  Don  Caesar,  and  Mrs. 
Mulrady  was  tidying  the  house  in  view  of  the  same  event. 
Something  in  the  tone  of  her  good  man's  voice,  and  the 
unusual  circumstance  of  his  return  to  the  house  before 
work  was  done,  caused  her,  however,  to  drop  her  dusting 
cloth,  and  run  to  the  kitchen  door  to  meet  him.  She  saw 
him  running  through  the  rows  of  cabbages,  his  face  shin 
ing  with  perspiration  and  excitement,  a  light  in  his  eyes 
which  she  had  not  seen  for  years.  She  recalled,  without 
sentiment,  that  he  looked  like  that  when  she  had  called 
him — a  poor  farm  hand  of  her  father's — out  of  the  brush 
heap  at  the  back  of  their  former  home,  in  Illinois,  to 
learn  the  consent  of  her  parents.  The  recollection  was 
the  more  embarrassing  as  he  threw  his  arms  around  her, 
and  pressed  a  resounding  kiss  upon  her  sallow  cheek. 

"Sakes  alive !  Mulrady !"  she  said,  exorcising  the  ghost 
of  a  blush  that  had  also  been  recalled  from  the  past  with 
her  housewife's  apron,  "what  are  you  doin',  and  com 
pany  expected  every  minit  ?" 

"Malviny,  I've  struck  it ;  and  struck  it  rich  !" 

She  disengaged  herself  from  his  arms,  without  excite 
ment,  and  looked  at  him  with  bright  but  shrewdly  ob 
servant  eyes. 

"I've  struck  it  in  the  well — the  regular  vein  that  the 
boys  have  been  looking  fer.  There's  a  fortin'  fer  you 
and  Mamie :  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands !" 

"Wait  a  minit." 

She  left  him  quickly,  and  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
He  could  hear  her  wonderingly  and  distinctly.  "Ye  can 
take  off  that  new  frock,  Mamie,"  she  called  out. 

There  was  a  sound  of  undisguised  expostulation'  from 
Mamie. 

"I'm  speaking,"  said  Mrs.  Mulrady,  emphatically. 

The  murmuring  ceased.  Mrs.  Mulrady  returned  to  her 
husband.  The  interruption  seemed  to  have  taken  off  the 
keen  edge  of  his  enjoyment.  He  at  once  abdicated  his 
momentary  elevation  as  a  discoverer,  and  waited  for  her 
to  speak. 

"Ye  haven't  told  any  one  yet?"  she  asked. 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          15 

'No.  I  was  alone,  down  in  the  shaft.  Ye  see,  Malviny, 
I  wasn't  expectin'  of  anything."  He  began,  with  an 
attempt  at  fresh  enjoyment,  "I  was  just  clearin'  out,  and 
hadn't  reckoned  on  anythin'." 

"You  see,  I  was  right  when  I  advised  you  taking  the 
land,"  she  said,  without  heeding  him. 

Mulrady's  face  fell.  "I  hope  Don  Csesar  won't  think" 
— he  began,  hesitatingly.  "I  reckon,  perhaps,  I  oughter 
make  some  sorter  compensation — you  know." 

"Stuff !"  said  Mrs.  Mulrady,  decidedly.  "Don't  be  a 
fool.  Any  gold  discovery,  anyhow,  would  have  been 
yours — that's  the  law.  And  you  bought  the  land  without 
any  restrictions.  Besides,  you  never  had  any  idea  of 
this !" — she  stopped,  and  looked  him  suddenly  in  the  face 
-"had  you?" 

Mulrady  opened  his  honest,  pale-gray  eyes  widely. 

"Why,  Malviny !  You  know  I  hadn't.  I  could 
swear !" 

"Don't  swear,  and  don't  let  on  to  anybody  but  what 
you  did  know  it  was  there.  Now,  Alvin  Mulrady,  listen 
to  me."  Her  voice  here  took  the  strident  form  of  action. 
"Knock  off  work  at  the  shaft,  and  send  your  man  away 
at  once.  Put  on  your  things,  catch  the  next  stage  to 
Sacramento  at  four  o'clock,  and  take  Mamie  with  you." 

"Mamie !"    echoed  Mulrady,  feebly. 

"You  want  to  see  Lawyer  Cole  and  my  brother  Jim 
at  once,"  she  went  on,  without  heeding  him,  "and  Mamie 
wants  a  change  and  some  proper  clothes.  Leave  the  rest 
to  me  and  Abner.  I'll  break  it  to  Mamie,  and  get  her 
ready." 

Mulrady  passed  his  hands  through  his  tangled  hair, 
wet  with  perspiration.  He  was  proud  of  his  wife's  energy 
and  action;  he  did  not  dream  of  opposing  her,  but  some 
how  he  was  disappointed.  The  charming  glamour  and 
joy  of  his  discovery  had  vanished  before  he  could  fairly 
dazzle  her  with  it;  or,  rather,  she  was  not  dazzled  with 
it  at  all.  It  had  become  like  business,  and  the  expression 
"breaking  it"  to  Mamie  jarred  upon  him.  He  would  have 
preferred  to  tell  her  himself;  to  watch  the  color  come 
into  her  delicate  oval  face,  to  have  seen  her  soft  eyes 


16         A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

light  with  an  innocent  joy  he  had  not  seen  in  his  wife's; 
and  he  felt  a  sinking  conviction  that  his  wife  was  the 
last  one  to  awaken  it. 

"You  ain't  got  any  time  to  lose,"  she  said,  impatiently, 
as  he  hesitated. 

Perhaps  it  was  her  impatience  that  struck  harshly  upon 
him ;  perhaps,  if  she  had  riot  accepted  her  good  fortune 
so  confidently,  he  would  not  have  spoken  what  was  in  his 
mind  at  the  time ;  but  he  said  gravely,  "Wait  a  minit, 
Malviny ;  I've  suthin'  to  tell  you  'bout  this  find  of  mine 
that's  sing'lar." 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  quickly. 

"Lyin'  among  the  rotten  quartz  of  the  vein  was  a  pick," 
he  said,  constrainedly;  "and  the  face  of  the  vein  sorter 
looked  ez  if  it  had  been  worked  at.  Follering  the  line 
outside  to  the  base  of  the  hill  there  was  signs  of  there 
having  been  an  old  tunnel;  but  it  had  fallen  in,  and  was 
blocked  up." 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Mulrady,  contemptuously. 

"Well,"  returned  her  husband,  somewhat  disconnect 
edly,  "it  kinder  looked  as  if  some  feller  might  have 
discovered  it  before." 

"And  went  away,  and  left  it  for  others !  That's  likely 
— ain't  it?"  interrupted  his  wife,  with  ill-disguised  in 
tolerance.  "Everybody  knows  the  hill  wasn't  worth  that 
for  prospectin';  and  it  was  abandoned  when  we  came 
here.  It's  your  property  and  you've  paid  for  it.  Are  you 
goin'  to  wait  to  advertise  for  the  owner,  Alvin  Mulrady, 
or  are  you  going  to  Sacramento  at  four  o'clock  to-day?" 

Mulrady  started.  He  had  never  seriously  believed  in 
the  possibility  of  a  previous  discovery;  but  his  con 
scientious  nature  had  prompted  him  to  give  it  a  fair 
consideration.  She  was  probably  right.  What  he  might 
have  thought  had  she  treated  it  with  equal  conscientious 
ness  he  did  not  consider.  "All  right,"  he  said  simply. 
"I  reckon  we'll  go  at  once." 

"And  when  you  talk  to  Lawyer  Cole  and  Jim,  keep 
that  silly  stuff  about  the  pick  to  yourself.  There's  no 
use  of  putting  queer  ideas  into  other  people's  heads  be 
cause  you  happen  to  have  'em  yourself." 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          17 

When  the  hurried  arrangements  were  at  last  com 
pleted,  and  Mr.  Mulrady  and  Mamie,  accompanied  by  a 
taciturn  and  discreet  Chinaman,  carrying  their  scant 
luggage,  were  on  their  way  to  the  high  road  to  meet  the 
up  stage,  the  father  gazed  somewhat  anxiously  and  wist 
fully  into  his  daughter's  face.  He  had  looked  forward 
to  those  few  moments  to  enjoy  the  freshness  and  naivete 
of  Mamie's  youthful  delight  and  enthusiasm  as  a  relief 
to  his  wife's  practical,  far-sighted  realism.  There  was  a 
pretty  pink  suffusion  in  her  delicate  cheek,  the  breathless 
happiness  of  a  child  in  her  half-opened  little  mouth,  and 
a  beautiful  absorption  in  her  large  gray  eyes  that  augured 
well  for  him. 

"Well,  Mamie,  how  do  we  like  bein'  an  heiress?  How 
do  we  like  layin'  over  all  the  gals  between  this  and 
'Frisco  ?" 

"Eh?" 

She  had  not  heard  him.  The  tender  beautiful  eyes 
were  engaged  in  an  anticipatory  examination  of  the  re 
membered  shelves  in  the  "Fancy  Emporium"  at  Sacra 
mento;  in  reading  the  admiration  of  the  clerks;  in 
glancing  down  a  little  criticisingly  at  the  broad  cowhide 
brogues  that  strode  at  her  side;  in  looking  up  the  road 
for  the  stage-coach;  in  regarding  the  fit  of  her  new 
gloves — everywhere  but  in  the  loving  eyes  of  the  man 
beside  her. 

He,  however,  repeated  the  question,  touched  with  her 
charming  preoccupation,  and  passing  his  arm  around  her 
little  waist. 

"I  like  it  well  enough,  pa,  you  know !"  she  said,  slightly 
disengaging  his  arm,  but  adding  a  perfunctory  little 
squeeze  to  his  elbow  to  soften  the  separation.  "I  al 
ways  had  an  idea  something  would  happen.  I  suppose 
I'm  looking  like  a  fright,"  she  added;  "but  ma  made  me 
hurry  to  get  away  before  Don  Caesar  came." 

"And  you  didn't  want  to  go  without  seeing  him?"  he 
added,  archly. 

"I  didn't  want  him  to  see  me  in  this  frock,"  said 
Mamie,  simply.  "I  reckon  that's  why  ma  made  me 
change,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  laugh. 


18          A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

"Well  I  reckon  you're  allus  good  enough  for  him  in 
any  dress,"  said  Mulrady,  watching  her  attentively ;  "and 
more  than  a  match  for  him  now,"  he  added,  triumph 
antly. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mamie.  "He's  been 
rich  all  the  time,  and  his  father  and  grandfather  before 
him;  while  we've  been  poor  and  his  tenants." 

His  face  changed ;  the  look  of  bewilderment,  with 
which  he  had  followed  her  words,  gave  way  to  one  of 
pain,  and  then  of  anger.  "Did  he  get  off  such  stuff  as 
that?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

"No.  I'd  like  to  catch  hiai  at  it,"  responded  Mamie, 
promptly.  "There's  better  nor  him  to  be  had  for  the 
asking  now." 

They  had  walked  on  a  few  moments  in  aggrieved 
silence,  and  the  Chinaman  might  have  imagined  some 
misfortune  had  just  befallen  them.  But  Mamie's  teeth 
shone  again  between  her  parted  lips.  "La,  pa !  it  ain't 
that !  He  cares  everything  for  me,  and  I  do  for  him ; 
and  if  ma  hadn't  got  new  ideas — "  She  stopped  sud 
denly. 

"What  new  ideas?"  queried  her  father,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  nothing !  I  wish,  pa,  you'd  put  on  your  other 
boots !  Everybody  can  see  these  are  made  for  the  far 
rows.  And  you  ain't  a  market  gardener  any  more." 

"What  am  I,  then?"  asked  Mulrady,  with  a  half- 
pleased,  half-uneasy  laugh. 

"You're  a  capitalist,  /  say;  but  ma  says  a  landed  pro 
prietor."  Nevertheless,  the  landed  proprietor,  when  he 
reached  the  boulder  on  the  Red  Dog  highway,  sat  down 
in  somewhat  moody  contemplation,  with  his  head  bowed 
over  the  broad  cowhide  brogues,  that  seemed  to  have 
already  gathered  enough  of  the  soil  to  indicate  his  right 
to  that  title.  Mamie,  who  had  recovered  her  spirits,  but 
had  not  lost  her  preoccupation,  wandered  off  by  herself 
in  the  meadow,  or  ascended  the  hillside,  as  her  occasional 
impatience  at  the  delay  of  the  coach,  or  the  following  of 
some  ambitious  fancy,  alternately  prompted  her.  She  was 
so  far  away  at  one  time  that  the  stage-coach,  which  finally 
drew  up  before  Mulrady,  was  obliged  to  wait  for  her. 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          19 

When  she  was  deposited  safely  inside,  and  Mulrady  had 
climbed  to  the  box  beside  the  driver,  the  latter  remarked, 
curtly, — 

"Ye  gave  me  a  right  smart  skeer,  a  minit  ago, 
stranger." 

"Ez  how  ?" 

"Well,  about  three  years  ago,  I  was  comin'  down  this 
yer  grade,  at  just  this  time,  and  sittin'  right  on  that  stone, 
in  just  your  attitude,  was  a  man  about  your  build  and 
years.  I  pulled  up  to  let  him  in,  when,  darn  my  skin!  if 
he  ever  moved,  but  sorter  looked  at  me  without  speakin'. 
I  called  to  him,  and  he  never  answered,  'cept  with  that 
idiotic  stare.  I  then  let  him  have  my  opinion  of  him,  in 
mighty  strong  English,  and  drove  off,  leavin'  him  there. 
The  next  morning,  when  I  came  by  on  the  up-trip,  darn 
my  skin !  if  he  wasn't  thar,  but  lyin'  all  of  a  heap  on  the 
boulder.  Jim  drops  down  and  picks  him  up.  Doctor 
Duchesne,  ez  was  along,  allowst  it  was  a  played-out  pros 
pector,  with  a  big  case  of  paralysis,  and  we  expressed 
him  through  to  the  County  Hospital,  like  so  much  dead 
freight.  I've  allus  been  kinder  superstitious  about  passin' 
that  rock,  and  when  I  saw  you  jist  now,  sittin'  thar,  dazed 
like,  with  your  head  down  like  the  other  chap,  it  rather 
threw  me  off  my  centre." 

In  the  inexplicable  and  half-superstitious  uneasiness 
that  this  coincidence  awakened  in  Mulrady's  unimagina 
tive  mind,  he  was  almost  on  the  point  of  disclosing  his 
good  fortune  to  the  driver,  in  order  to  prove  how  pre 
posterous  was  the  parallel,  but  checked  himself  in  time. 

"Did  you  find  out  who  he  was  ?"  broke  in  a  rash  pas 
senger.  "Did  you  ever  get  over  it?"  added  another  un 
fortunate. 

With  a  pause  of  insulting  scorn  at  the  interruption, 
the  driver  resumed,  pointedly,  to  Mulrady:  "The  pint  of 
the  whole  thing  was  my  cussin'  a  helpless  man,  ez  could 
neither  cuss  back  nor  shoot ;  and  then  afterwards  takin' 
you  for  his  ghost  layin'  for  me  to  get  even."  He  paused 
again,  and  then  added,  carelessly,  "They  say  he  never 
kem  to  enuff  to  let  on  who  he  was  or  whar  he  kem  from ; 
and  he  was  eventooally  taken  to  a  'Sylum  for  Doddering 


20         A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

Idjits  and  Gin'ral  and  Permiskus  Imbeciles  at  Sacra 
mento.  I've  heerd  it's  considered  a  first-class  insti- 
tooshun,  not  only  for  them  ez  is  paralyzed  and  can't  talk, 
as  for  them  ez  is  the  reverse  and  is  too  chipper.  Now," 
he  added,  languidly  turning  for  the  first  time  to  his  miser 
able  questioners,  "how  did  you  find  it?" 


CHAPTER    II 

WHEN  the  news  of  the  discovery  of  gold  in  Mulrady 
shaft  was  finally  made  public,  it  created  an  excitement 
hitherto  unknown  in  the  history  of  the  country.  Half  of 
Red  Dog  and  all  Rough-and-Ready  were  emptied  upon 
the  yellow  hills  surrounding  Mulrady's,  until  their  circling 
camp  fires  looked  like  a  besieging  army  that  had  invested 
his  peaceful  pastoral  home,  preparatory  to  carrying  it  by 
assault.  Unfortunately  for  them,  they  found  the  various 
points  of  vantage  already  garrisoned  with  notices  of 
"preemption"  for  mining  purposes  in  the  name  of  the 
various  members  of  the  Alvarado  family.  This  stroke  of 
business  was  due  to  Mrs.  Mulrady,  as  a  means  of  molli 
fying  the  conscientious  scruples  of  her  husband  and  of 
placating  the  Alvarados,  in  veiw  of  some  remote  contin 
gency.  It  is  but  fair  to  say  that  this  degradation  of  his 
father's  Castilian  principles  was  opposed  by  Don  Caesar. 
"You  needn't  work  them  yourself,  but  sell  out  to  them 
that  will ;  it's  the  only  way  to  keep  the  prospectors  from 
taking  it  without  paying  for  it  at  all,"  argued  Mrs.  Mul 
rady.  Don  Caesar  finally  assented ;  perhaps  less  to  the 
business  arguments  of  Mulrady's  wife  than  to  the  simple 
suggestion  of  Mamie's  mother.  Enough  that  he  realized 
a  sum  in  money  for  a  few  acres  that  exceeded  the  last 
ten  years'  income  of  Don  Ramon's  seven  leagues. 

Equally  unprecedented  and  extravagant  was  the  reali 
zation  of  the  discovery  in  Mulrady's  shaft.  It  was  alleged 
that  a  company,  hastily  formed  in  Sacramento,  paid  him 
a  million  of  dollars  down,  leaving  him  still  a  controlling 
two-thirds  interest  in  the  mine.  With  an  obstinacy,  how 
ever,  that  amounted  almost  to  a  moral  conviction,  he  re- 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY         21 

fused  to  include  the  house  and  potato-patch  in  the 
property.  When  the  company  had  yielded  the  point,  he 
declined,  with  equal  tenacity,  to  part  with  it  to  outside 
speculators  on  even  the  most  extravagant  offers.  In  vain 
Mrs.  Mulrady  protested;  in  vain  she  pointed  out  to  him 
that  the  retention  of  the  evidence  of  his  former  humble 
occupation  was  a  green  blot  upon  their  social  escutcheon. 

"If  you  will  keep  the  land,  build  on  it,  and  root  up  the 
garden."  But  Mulrady  was  adamant. 

"It's  the  only  thing  I  ever  made  myself,  and  got  out 
of  the  soil  with  my  own  hands;  it's  the  beginning  of  my 
fortune,  and  it  may  be  the  end  of  it.  Mebbee  I'll  be  glad 
enough  to  have  it  to  come  back  to  some  day,  and  be 
thankful  for  the  square  meal  I  can  dig  out  of  it." 

By  repeated  pressure,  however,  Mulrady  yielded  the 
compromise  that  a  portion  of  it  should  be  made  into  a 
vineyard  and  flower-garden,  and  by  a  suitable  coloring 
of  ornament  and  luxury  obliterate  its  vulgar  part.  Less 
successful,  however,  was  that  energetic  woman  in  another 
effort  to  mitigate  the  austerities  of  their  earlier  state.  It 
occurred  to  her  to  utilize  the  softer  accents  of  Don  Caesar 
in  the  pronunciation  of  their  family  name,  and  privately 
had  "Mulrade"  take  the  place  of  Mulrady  on  her  visiting 
card.  "It  might  be  Spanish,"  she  argued  with  her  hus 
band.  "Lawyer  Cole  says  most  American  names  are  cor 
rupted,  and  how  do  you  know  that  yours  ain't?" 
Mulrady,  who  would  not  swear  that  his  ancestors  came 
from  Ireland  to  the  Carolinas  in  '98,  was  helpless  to 
refute  the  assertion.  But  the  terrible  Nemesis  of  an 
un-Spanish,  American  provincial  speech  avenged  the  or 
thographical  outrage  at  once.  When  Mrs.  Mulrady  began 
to  be  addressed  orally,  as  well  as  by  letter,  as  "Mrs.  Mul- 
raid,"  and  when  simple  amatory  effusions  to  her  daughter 
rhymed  with  "lovely  maid,"  she  promptly  refused  the 
original  vowel.  But  she  fondly  clung  to  the  Spanish 
courtesy  which  transformed  her  husband's  baptismal 
name,  and  usually  spoke  of  him — in  his  absence — as 
"Don  Alvino."  But  in  the  presence  of  his  short,  square 
figure,  his  orange  tawny  hair,  his  twinkling  gray  eyes, 
and  retrousse  nose,  even  that  dominant  woman  withheld 


22          A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

his  title.  It  was  currently  reported  at  Red  Dog  that  a 
distinguished  foreigner  had  one  day  approached  Mul 
rady  with  the  formula,  "I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of 
addressing  Don  Alvino  Mulrady?"  "You  kin  bet 
your  boots,  stranger,  that's  me,"  had  returned  that  sim 
ple  hidalgo. 

Although  Mrs.  Mulrady  would  have  preferred  that 
Mamie  should  remain  at  Sacramento  until  she  could  join 
her,  preparatory  to  a  trip  to  "the  States"  and  Europe,  she 
yielded  to  her  daughter's  desire  to  astonish  Rough-and- 
Ready,  before  she  left,  with  her  new  wardrobe,  and  un 
fold  in  the  parent  nest  the  delicate  and  painted  wings 
with  which  she  was  to  fly  from  them  forever.  "I  don't 
want  them  to  remember  me  afterwards  in  those  spotted 
prints,  ma,  and  like  as  not  say  I  never  had  a  decent 
frock  until  I  went  away."  There  was  something  so  like 
the  daughter  of  her  mother  in  this  delicate  foresight  that 
the  touched  and  gratified  parent  kissed  her,  and  assented. 
The  result  was  gratifying  beyond  her  expectation.  In 
that  few  weeks'  sojourn  at  Sacramento,  the  young  girl 
seemed  to  have  adapted  and  assimilated  herself  to  the 
latest  modes  of  fashion  with  even  more  than  the  usual 
American  girl's  pliancy  and  taste.  Equal  to  all  emer 
gencies  of  style  and  material,  she  seemed  to  supply,  from 
some  hitherto  unknown  quality  she  possessed,  the  grace 
and  manner  peculiar  to  each.  Untrammeled  by  tradition, 
education,  or  precedent,  she  had  the  Western  girl's  confi 
dence  in  all  things  being  possible,  which  made  them  so 
often  probable.  Mr.  Mulrady  looked  at  his  daughter 
with  mingled  sentiments  of  pride  and  awe.  Was  it  pos 
sible  that  this  delicate  creature,  so  superior  to  him  that 
he  seemed  like  a  degenerate  scion  of  her  remoter  race, 
was  his  own  flesh  and  blood?  Was  she  the  daughter  of 
her  mother,  who  even  in  her  remembered  youth  was 
never  equipped  like  this?  If  the  thought  brought  no 
pleasure  to  his  simple,  loving  nature,  it  at  least  spared 
him  the  pain  of  what  might  have  seemed  ingratitude  in 
one  more  akin  to  himself.  "The  fact  is,  we  ain't  quite 
up  to  her  style,"  was  his  explanation  and  apology.  A 
vague  belief  that  in  another  and  a  better  world  than  this 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          23 

he  might  approximate  and  understand  this  perfection 
somewhat  soothed  and  sustained  him. 

It  was  quite  consistent,  therefore,  that  the  embroidered 
cambric  dress  which  Mamie  Mulrady  wore  one  summer 
afternoon  on  the  hillside  at  Los  Gatos,  while  to  the  crit 
ical  feminine  eye  at  once  artistic  and  expensive,  should 
not  seem  incongruous  to  her  surroundings  or  to  herself 
in  the  eyes  of  a  general  audience.  It  certainly  did  not 
seem  so  to  one  pair  of  frank,  humorous  ones  that, glanced 
at  her  from  time  to  time,  as  their  owner,  a  young  fellow 
of  five-and-twenty,  walked  at  her  side.  He  was  the  new 
editor  of  the  "Rough-and-Ready  Record,"  and,  having 
been  her  fellow-passenger  from  Sacramento,  had  already 
once  or  twice  availed  himself  of  her  father's  invitation  to 
call  upon  them.  Mrs.  Mulrady  had  not  discouraged  this 
mild  flirtation.  Whether  she  wished  to  disconcert  Don 
Caesar  for  some  occult  purpose,  or  whether,  like  the  rest 
of  her  sex,  she  had  an  overweening  confidence  in  the 
unheroic,  unseductive,  and  purely  platonic  character  of 
masculine  humor,  did  not  appear. 

''When  I  say  I'm  sorry  you  are  going  to  leave  us,  Miss 
Mulrady,"  said  the  young  fellow,  lightly,  "you  will  com 
prehend  my  unselfishness,  since  I  frankly  admit  your  de 
parture  would  be  a  positive  relief  to  me  as  an  editor  and 
a  man.  The  pressure  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  the  'Record' 
since  it  was  mistakingly  discovered  that  a  person  of  your 
name  might  be  induced  to  seek  the  'glade'  and  'shade' 
without  being  'afraid,'  'dismayed/  or  'betrayed,'  has  been 
something  enormous,  and,  unfortunately,  I  am  debarred 
from  rejecting  anything,  on  the  just  ground  that  I  am 
myself  an  interested  admirer." 

"It's  dreadful  to  be  placarded  around  the  country  by 
one's  own  full  name,  isn't  it?"  said  Mamie,  without, 
however,  expressing  much  horror  in  her  face. 

"They  think  it  much  more  respectful  than  to  call  you 
'Mamie,'  "  he  responded,  lightly ;  "and  many  of  your  ad 
mirers  are  middle-aged  men,  with  a  mediaeval  style  of 
compliment.  I've  discovered  that  amatory  versifying 
wasn't  entirely  a  youthful  passion.  Colonel  Cash  is  about 
as  fatal  with  a  couplet  as  with  a  double-barreled  gun,  and 


24          A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

scatters  as  terribly.  Judge  Butts  and  Dr.  Wilson  have 
both  discerned  the  resemblance  of  your  gifts  to  those  of 
Venus,  and  their  own  to  Apollo.  But  don't  undervalue 
those  tributes,  Miss  Mulrady,"  he  added,  more  seriously. 
"You'll  have  thousands  of  admirers  where  you  are  going; 
but  you'll  be  willing  to  admit  in  the  end,  I  think,  that 
none  were  more  honest  and  respectful  than  your  subjects 
at  Rough-and-Ready  and  Red  Dog."  He  stopped,  and 
added  in  a  graver  tone,  "Does  Don  Caesar  write  poetry?" 

"He  has  something  better  to  do,"  said  the  young  lady, 
pertly. 

"I  can  easily  imagine  that,"  he  returned,  mischievously ; 
"it  must  be  a  pallid  substitute  for  other  opportunities." 

"What  did  you  come  here  for?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"To  see  you." 

"Nonsense !  You  know  what  I  mean.  Why  did  you 
ever  leave  Sacramento  to  come  here?  I  should  think  it 
would  suit  you  so  much  better  than  this  place." 

"I  suppose  I  was  fired  by  your  father's  example,  and 
wished  to  find  a  gold  mine." 

"Men  like  you  never  do,"  she  said,  simply. 

"Is  that  a  compliment,  Miss  Mulrady?" 

"I  don't  know.    But  I  think  that  you  think  that  it  is." 

He  gave  her  the  pleased  look  of  one  who  had  unex 
pectedly  found  a  sympathetic  intelligence.  "Do  I  ?  This 
is  interesting.  Let's  sit  down."  In  their  desultory 
rambling  they  had  reached,  quite  unconsciously,  the  large 
boulder  at  the  roadside.  Mamie  hesitated  a  moment, 
looked  up  and  down  the  road,  and  then,  with  an  already 
opulent  indifference  to  the  damaging  of  her  spotless  skirt, 
sat  herself  upon  it,  with  her  furled  parasol  held  by  her 
two  little  hands  thrown  over  her  half-drawn-up  knee. 
The  young  editor,  half  sitting,  half  leaning,  against  the 
stone,  began  to  draw  figures  in  the  sand  with  his  cane. 

"On  the  contrary,  Miss  Mulrady,  I  hope  to  make  some 
money  here.  You  are  leaving  Rough-and-Ready  because 
you  are  rich.  We  are  coming  to  it  because  we  are  poor." 

"We?"  echoed  Mamie,  lazily,  looking  up  the  road. 

"Yes.     My  father  and  two  sisters." 

"I  am  sorry.     I  might  have  known  them  if  I  hadn't 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY         25 

been  going  away."  At  the  same  moment,  it  flashed  across 
her  mind  that,  if  they  were  like  the  man  before  her, 
they  might  prove  disagreeably  independent  and  critical. 
"Is  your  father  in  business?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  After  a  pause,  he  said,  punctuating 
his  sentences  with  the  point  of  his  stick  in  the  soft  dust, 
"He  is  paralyzed,  and  out  of  his  mind,  Miss  Mulrady.  I 
came  to  California  to  seek  him,  as  all  news  of  him  ceased 
three  years  since;  and  I  found  him  only  two  weeks  ago, 
alone,  friendless — an  unrecognized  pauper  in  the  county 
hospital." 

"Two  weeks  ago?  That  was  when  I  went  to  Sacra 
mento." 

"Very  probably." 

"It  must  have  been  very  shocking  to  you?" 

"It  was." 

"I  should  think  you'd  feel  real  bad?" 

"I  do,  at  times."  He  smiled,  and  laid  his  stick  on  the 
stone.  "You  now  see,  Miss  Mulrady,  how  necessary  to 
me  is  this  good  fortune  that  you  don't  think  me  worthy 
of.  Meantime  I  must  try  to  make  a  home  for  them  at 
Rough-and-Ready." 

Miss  Mulrady  put  down  her  knee  and  her  parasol. 
"We  mustn't  stay  here  much  longer,  you  know." 

"Why?" 

"Why,  the  stage-coach  comes  by  at  about  this  time." 

"And  you  think  the  passengers  will  observe  us  sitting 
here  ?" 

"Of  course  they  will." 

"Miss  Mulrady,  I  implore  you  to  stay." 

He  was  leaning  over  her  with  such  apparent  earnest 
ness  of  voice  and  gesture  that  the  color  came  into  her 
cheek.  For  a  moment  she  scarcely  dared  to  lift  her  con 
scious  eyes  to  his.  When  she  did  so,  she  suddenly 
glanced  her  own  aside  with  a  flash  of  anger.  He  was 
laughing. 

"If  you  have  any  pity  for  me,  do  not  leave  me  now," 
he  repeated.  "Stay  a  moment  longer,  and  my  fortune  is 
made.  The  passengers  will  report  us  all  over  Red  Dog 
as  engaged.  I  shall  be  supposed  to  be  in  your  father's 


26  A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

secrets,  and  shall  be  sought  after  as  a  director  of  all  the 
new  companies.  The  'Record'  will  double  its  circulation ; 
poetry  will  drop  out  of  its  columns,  advertising  rush  to 
fill  its  place,  and  I  shall  receive  five  dollars  a  week  more 
salary,  if  not  seven  and  a  half.  Never  mind  the  conse 
quences  to  yourself  at  such  a  moment.  I  assure  you  there 
will  be  none.  You  can  deny  it  the  next  day — /  will  deny 
it — nay,  more,  the  'Record'  itself  will  deny  it  in  an  extra 
edition  of  one  thousand  copies,  at  ten  cents  each.  Linger 
a  moment  longer,  Miss  Mulrady.  Fly,  oh  fly  not  yet. 
They're  coming — hark !  oh !  By  Jove,  it's  only  Don 
Caesar !" 

It  was,  indeed,  only  the  young  scion  of  the  house  of 
Alvarado,  blue-eyed,  sallow-skinned,  and  high-shouldered, 
coming  towards  them  on  a  fiery,  half-broken  mustang, 
whose  very  spontaneous  lawlessness  seemed  to  accentu 
ate  and  bring  out  the  grave  and  decorous  ease  of  his 
rider.  Even  in  his  burlesque  preoccupation  the  editor  of 
the  "Record"  did  not  withhold  his  admiration  of  this  per 
fect-horsemanship.  Mamie,  who,  in  her  wounded  amour 
propre,  would  like  to  have  made  much  of  it  to  annoy  her 
companion,  was  thus  estopped  any  ostentatious  compli 
ment. 

Don  Caesar  lifted  his  hat  with  sweet  seriousness  to  the 
lady,  with  grave  courtesy  to  the  gentleman.  While  the 
lower  half  of  this  Centaur  was  apparently  quivering  with 
fury,  and  stamping  the  ground  in  his  evident  desire  to 
charge  upon  the  pair,  the  upper  half,  with  natural  dignity, 
looked  from  the  one  to  the  other,  as  if  to  leave  the 
privilege  of  an  explanation  with  them.  But  Mamie  was 
too  wise,  and  her  companion  too  indifferent,  to  offer  one. 
A  slight  shade  passed  over  Don  Caesar's  face.  To  compli 
cate  the  situation  at  that  moment,  the  expected  stage 
coach  came  rattling  by.  With  quick  feminine  intuition, 
Mamie  caught  in  the  faces  of  the  driver  and  the  express 
man,  and  reflected  in  the  mischievous  eyes  of  her  com 
panion,  a  peculiar  interpretation  of  their  meeting,  that 
was  not  removed  by  the  whispered  assurance  of  the  editor 
that  the  passengers  were  anxiously  looking  back  "to  see 
the  shooting." 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY         27 

The  young  Spaniard,  equally  oblivious  of  humor  or 
curiosity,  remained  impassive. 

"You  know  Mr.  Slinn,  of  the  'Record,"  said  Mamie, 
"don't  you?" 

Don  Caesar  had  never  before  met  the  Senor  Esslinn. 
He  was  under  the  impression  that  it  was  a  Senor  Rob 
inson  that  was  of  the  "Record." 

"Oh,  he  was  shot,"  said  Slinn.    "I'm  taking  his  place." 

"Bueno !     To  be  shot  too  ?     I  trust  not." 

Slinn  looked  quickly  and  sharply  into  Don  Caesar's 
grave  face.  He  seemed  to  be  incapable  of  any  double 
meaning.  However,  as  he  had  no  serious  reason  for 
awakening  Don  Caesar's  jealousy,  and  very  little  desire 
to  become  an  embarrassing  third  in  this  conversation,  and 
possibly  a  burden  to  the  young  lady,  he  proceeded  to  take 
his  leave  of  her.  From  a  sudden  feminine  revulsion  of 
sympathy,  or  from  some  unintelligible  instinct  of  diplo 
macy,  Mamie  said,  as  she  extended  her  hand,  "I  hope 
you'll  find  a  home  for  your  family  near  here.  Mamma 
wants  pa  to  let  our  old  house.  Perhaps  it  might  suit  you, 
if  not  too  far  from  your  work.  You  might  speak  to  ma 
about  it." 

"Thank  you;  I  will,"  responded  the  young  man,  press 
ing  her  hand  with  unaffected  cordiality. 

Don  Caesar  watched  him  until  he  had  disappeared  be 
hind  the  wayside  buckeyes. 

"He  is  a  man  of  family — this  one — your  countryman?" 

It  seemed  strange  to  her  to  have  a  mere  acquaintance 
spoken  of  as  "her  countryman" — not  the  first  time  nor 
the  last  time  in  her  career.  As  there  appeared  no  trace 
or  sign  of  jealousy  in  her  questioner's  manner,  she  an 
swered  briefly  but  vaguely : 

"Yes ;  it's  a  shocking  story.  His  father  disappeared 
some  years  ago,  and  he  has  just  found  him — a  helpless 
paralytic — in  the  Sacramento  Hospital.  He'll  have  to 
support  him — and  they're  very  poor." 

"So,  then,  they  are  not  independent  of  each  other  al 
ways — these  fathers  and  children  of  Americans !" 

"No,"  said  Mamie,  shortly.  Without  knowing  why, 
she  felt  inclined  to  resent  Don  Caesar's  manner.  His 


, 


28          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

serious  gravity — gentle  and  high-bred  as  it  was,  un 
doubtedly — was  somewhat  trying  to  her  at  times,  and 
seemed  even  more  so  after  Slinn's  irreverent  humor. 
She  picked  up  her  parasol,  a  little  impatiently,  as  if 
to  go. 

But  Don  Csesar  had  already  dismounted,  and  tied  his 
horse  to  a  tree  with  a  strong  lariat  that  hung  at  his 
saddle-bow. 

"Let  us  walk  through  the  woods  towards  your  home. 
I  can  return  alone  for  the  horse  when  you  shall  dis 
miss  me." 

They  turned  in  among  the  pines  that,  overcrowding 
the  hollow,  crept  partly  up  the  side  of  the  hill  of  Mul- 
rady's  shaft.  A  disused  trail,  almost  hidden  by  the  waxen- 
hued  yerba  buena,  led  from  the  highway,  and  finally  lost 
itself  in  the  undergrowth.  It  was  a  lovers'  walk ;  they 
were  lovers,  evidently,  and  yet  the  man  was  too  self- 
poised  in  his  gravity,  the  young  woman  too  conscious 
and  critical,  to  suggest  an  absorbing  or  oblivious  passion. 

"I  should  not  have  made  myself  so  obtrusive  to-day 
before  your  friend,"  said  Don  Caesar,  with  proud  hu 
mility,  "but  I  could  not  understand  from  your  mother 
whether  you  were  alone  or  whether  my  company  was 
desirable.  It  is  of  this  I  have  now  to  speak,  Mamie. 
Lately  your  mother  has  seemed  strange  to  me ;  avoiding 
any  reference  to  our  affection ;  treating  it  lightly,  and 
even  as  to-day,  I  fancy,  putting  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  our  meeting  alone.  She  was  disappointed  at  your 
return  from  Sacramento  where,  I  have  been  told,  she 
intended  you  to  remain  until  you  left  the  country;  and 
since  your  return  I  have  seen  you  but  twice.  I  may  be 
wrong.  Perhaps  I  do  not  comprehend  the  American 
mother;  I  have — who  knows? — perhaps  offended  in 
some  point  of  etiquette,  omitted  some  ceremony  that  was 
her  due.  But  when  you  told  me,  Mamie,  that  it  was 
not  necessary  to  speak  to  her  first,  that  it  was  not  the 
American  fashion — " 

Mamie  started,  and  blushed  slightly. 

"Yes,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "certainly ;  but  ma  has  been 
quite  queer  of  late,  and  she  may  think — you  know — that 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          29 

since — since  there  has  been  so  much  property  to  dispose 
of,  she  ought  to  have  been  consulted." 

"Then  let  us  consult  her  at  once,  dear  child!  And  as 
to  the  property,  in  Heaven's  name,  let  her  dispose  of  it 
as  she  will.  Saints  forbid  that  an  Alvarado  should  ever 
interfere.  And  what  is  it  to  us,  my  little  one?  Enough 
that  Dona  Mameta  Alvarado  will  never  have  less  state 
than  the  richest  bride  that  ever  came  to  Los  Gatos." 

Mamie  had  not  forgotten  that,  scarcely  a  month  ago, 
even  had  she  loved  the  man  before  her  no  more  than  she 
did  at  present,  she  would  still  have  been  thrilled  with 
delight  at  these  words !  Even  now  she  was  moved — 
conscious  as  she  had  become  that  the  "state"  of  a  bride 
of  the  Alvarados  .was  not  all  she  had  imagined,  and  that 
the  bare  adobe  court  of  Los  Gatos  was  open  to  the  sky 
and  the  free  criticism  of  Sacramento  capitalists ! 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  murmured  with  a  half  childlike 
pleasure,  that  lit  up  her  face  and  eyes  so  innocently  that 
it  stopped  any  minute  investigation  into  its  origin  and 
real  meaning.  "Yes,  dear;  but  we  need  not  have  a  fuss 
made  about  it  at  present,  and  perhaps  put  ma  against 
us.  She  wouldn't  hear  of  our  marrying  now;  and  she 
might  forbid  our  engagement." 

"But  you  are  going  away." 

"I  should  have  to  go  to  New  York  or  Europe  first, 
you  know,"  she  answered,  naively,  "even  if  it  were  all 
settled.  I  should  have  to  get  things !  One  couldn't  be 
decent  here." 

With  the  recollection  of  the  pink  cotton  gown,  in 
which  she  had  first  pledged  her  troth  to  him,  before  his 
eyes,  he  said,  "But  you  are  charming  now.  You  can 
not  be  more  so  to  me.  If  I  am  satisfied,  little  one,  with 
you  as  you  are,  let  us  go  together,  and  then  you  can  get 
dresses  to  please  others." 

She  had  not  expected  this  importunity.  Really,  if  it 
came  to  this,  she  might  have  engaged  herself  to  some 
one  like  Slinn;  he  at  least  would  have  understood  her. 
He  was  much  cleverer,  and  certainly  more  of  a  man  of 
the  world.  When  Slinn  had  treated  her  like  a  child,  it 
was  with  the  humorous  tolerance  of  an  admiring  su- 


30          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

perior,  and  not  the  didactic  impulse  of  a  guardian.  She 
did  not  say  this,  nor  did  her  pretty  eyes  indicate  it,  as 
in  the  instance  of  her  brief  anger  with  Slinn.  She  only 
said  gently, — 

"I  should  have  thought  you,  of  all  men,  would  have 
been  particular  about  your  wife  doing  the  proper  thing. 
But  never  mind !  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about 
it.  Perhaps  as  it  seems  such  a  great  thing  to  you, 
and  so  much  trouble,  there  may  be  no  necessity  for 
it  at  all." 

I  do  not  think  that  the  young  lady  deliberately  planned 
this  charmingly  illogical  deduction  from  Don  Caesar's 
speech,  or  that  she  calculated  its  effect  upon  him ;  but  it 
was  part  of  her  nature  to  say  it,  and  profit  by  it.  Under 
the  unjust  lash  of  it,  his  pride  gave  way. 

"Ah,  do  you  not  see  why  I  wish  to  go  with  you?" 
he  said,  with  sudden  and  unexpected  passion.  "You  are 
beautiful;  you  are  good;  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  make 
you  rich  also;  but  you  are  a  child  in  experience,  and 
know  not  your  own  heart.  With  your  beauty,  your  good 
ness,  and  your  wealth,  you  will  attract  all  to  you — as 
you  do  here — because  you  cannot  help  it.  But  you  will 
be  equally  helpless,  little  one,  if  they  should  attract  you, 
and  you  had  no  tie  to  fall  back  upon." 

It  was  an  unfortunate  speech.  The  words  were  Don 
Caesar's ;  but  the  thought  she  had  heard  before  from  her 
mother,  although  the  deduction  had  been  of  a  very  dif 
ferent  kind.  Mamie  followed  the  speaker  with  bright 
but  visionary  eyes.  There  must  be  some  truth  in  all 
this.  Her  mother  had  said  it;  Mr.  Slinn  had  laughingly 
admitted  it.  She  had  a  brilliant  future  before  her !  Was 
she  right  in  making  it  impossible  by  a  rash  and  foolish 
tie?  He  himself  had  said  she  was  inexperienced.  She 
knew  it;  and  yet,  what  was  he  doing  now  but  taking 
advantage  of  that  inexperience  ?  If  he  really  loved  her, 
he  would  be  willing  to  submit  to  the  test.  She  did  not 
ask  a  similar  one  from  him;  and  was  willing,  if  she 
came  out  of  it  free,  to  marry  him  just  the  same.  There 
was  something  so  noble  in  this  thought  that  she  felt 
for  a  moment  carried  away  by  an  impulse  of  com- 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          31 

passionate  unselfishness,  and  smiled  tenderly  as  she  looked 
up  in  his  face. 

"Then  you  consent,  Mamie  ?"  he  said,  eagerly,  passing 
his  arm  around  her  waist. 

"Not  now,  Caesar,"  she  said,  gently  disengaging  her 
self.  "I  must  think  it  over;  we  are  both  too  young  to 
act  upon  it  rashly ;  it  would  be  unfair  to  you,  who  are 
so  quiet  and  have  seen  so  few  girls — I  mean  Americans 
— to  tie  yourself  to  the  first  one  you  have  known.  When 
I  am  gone  you  will  go  more  into  the  world.  There  are 
Mr.  Slinn's  two  sisters  coming  here — I  shouldn't  won 
der  if  they  were  far  cleverer  and  talked  far  better  than 
I  do — and  think  how  I  should  feel  if  I  knew  that  only 
a  wretched  pledge  to  me  kept  you  from  loving  them!" 
She  stopped,  and  cast  down  her  eyes. 

It  was  her  first  attempt  at  coquetry,  for,  in  her  usual 
charming  selfishness,  she  was  perfectly  frank  and  open ; 
and  it  might  not  have  been  her  last,  but  she  had  gone 
too  far  at  first,  and  was  not  prepared  for  a  recoil  of  her 
own  argument. 

"If  you  admit  that  it  is  possible — that  it  is  possible  to 
you !"  he  said,  quickly. 

She  saw  her  mistake.  "We  may  not  have  many  op 
portunities  to  meet  alone,"  she  answered,  quietly ;  "and 
I  am  sure  we  would  be  happier  when  we  meet  not  to 
accuse  each  other  of  impossibilities.  Let  us  rather  see 
how  we  can  communicate  together,  if  anything  should 
prevent  our  meeting.  Remember,  it  was  only  by  chance 
that  you  were  able  to  see  me  now.  If  ma  has  believed 
that  she  ought  to  have  been  consulted,  our  meeting  to 
gether  in  this  secret  way  will  only  make  matters  worse. 
She  is  even  now  wondering  where  I  am,  and  may  be 
suspicious.  I  must  go  back  at  once.  At  any  moment 
some  one  may  come  here  looking  for  me." 

"But  I  have  so  much  to  say,"  he  pleaded.  "Our  time 
has  been  so  short." 

"You  can  write." 

"But  what  will  your  mother  think  of  that?"  he  said, 
in  grave  astonishment. 

She  colored  again  as  she  returned,  quickly,  "Of  course, 


32          A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

you  must  not  write  to  the  house.  You  can  leave  a  letter 
somewhere  for  me — say,  somewhere  about  here.  Stop !" 
she  added,  with  a  sudden  girlish  gayety,  "see,  here's  the 
very  place.  Look  there  !" 

She  pointed  to  the  decayed  trunk  of  a  blasted  syca 
more,  a  few  feet  from  the  trail.  A  cavity,  breast  high, 
half  filled  with  skeleton  leaves  and  pine-nuts,  showed  that 
it  had  formerly  been  a  squirrel's  hoard,  but  for  some, 
reason  had  been  deserted. 

"Look !  it's  a  regular  letter-box,"  she  continued,  gayly, 
rising  on  tip-toe  to  peep  into  its  recesses.  Don  Caesar 
looked  at  her  admiringly ;  it  seemed  like  a  return  to 
their  first  idyllic  love-making  in  the  old  days,  when  she 
used  to  steal  out  of  the  cabbage  rows  in  her  brown  linen 
apron  and  sun-bonnet  to  walk  with  him  in  the  woods. 
He  recalled  the  fact  to  her  with  the  fatality  of  a  lover 
already  seeking  to  restore  in  past  recollections  some 
thing  that  was  wanting  in  the  present.  She  received  it 
with  the  impatience  of  youth,  to  whom  the  present  is 
all  sufficient. 

"I  wonder  how  you  could  ever  have  cared  for  me  in 
that  holland  apron,"  .she  said,  looking  down  upon  her 
new  dress. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why?"  he  said,  fondly,  passing  his 
arm  around  her  waist,  and  drawing  her  pretty  head  nearer 
his  shoulder. 

"No — not  now !"  she  said,  laughingly,  but  struggling 
to  free  herself.  "There's  not  time.  Write  it,  and  put 
it  in  the  box.  There,"  she  added,  hastily,  "listen ! — what's 
that?" 

"It's  only  a  squirrel,"  he  whispered  reassuringly  in 
her  ear. 

"No ;  it's  somebody  coming !  I  must  go  !  Please ! 
Caesar,  dear  !  There,  then — " 

She  met  his  kiss  half-way,  released  herself  with  a 
lithe  movement  of  her  wrist  and  shoulder,  and  the 
next  moment  seemed  to  slip  into  the  woods,  and  was 
gone. 

Don  Caesar  listened  with  a  sigh  as  the  last  rustling 
ceased,  cast  a  look  at  the  decayed  tree  as  if  to  fix  it  in 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          33 

his  memory,  and  then  slowly  retraced  his  steps  towards 
his  tethered   mustang. 

He  was  right,  however,  in  his  surmise  of  the  cause  of 
that  interruption.  A  pair  of  bright  eyes  had  been  watch 
ing  them  from  the  bough  of  an  adjacent  tree.  It  was  a 
squirrel,  who,  having  had  serious  and  prior  intentions 
of  making  use  of  the  cavity  they  had  discovered,  had 
only  withheld  examination  by  an  apparent  courteous  dis 
cretion  towards  the  intruding  pair.  Now  that  they  were 
gone  he  slipped  down  the  tree  and  ran  towards  the  de 
cayed  stump. 

CHAPTER  III 

APPARENTLY  dissatisfied  with  the  result  of  an  investi 
gation,  which  proved  that  the  cavity  was  unfit  as  a 
treasure  hoard  for  a  discreet  squirrel,  whatever  its  value 
as  a  receptacle  for  the  love-tokens  of  incautious  humanity, 
the  little  animal  at  once  set  about  to  put  things  in  order. 
He  began  by  whisking  out  an  immense  quantity  of  dead 
leaves,  disturbed  a  family  of  tree-spiders,  dissipated  a 
drove  of  patient  aphides  browsing  in  the  bark,  as  well 
as  their  attendant  dairymen,  the  ants,  and  otherwise 
ruled  it  with  the  high  hand  of  dispossession  and  a  con 
temptuous  opinion  of  the  previous  incumbents.  It  must 
not  be  supposed,  however,  that  his  proceedings  were 
altogether  free  from  contemporaneous  criticism ;  a  vener 
able  crow  sitting  on  a  branch  above  him  displayed  great 
interest  in  his  occupation,  and,  hopping  down  a  few 
moments  afterwards,  disposed  of  some  worm-eaten  nuts, 
a  few  larvae,  and  an  insect  or  two,  with  languid  dignity 
and  without  prejudice.  Certain  incumbrances,  however, 
still  resisted  the  squirrel's  general  eviction ;  among  them 
a  folded  square  of  paper  with  sharply  defined  edges,  that 
declined  investigation,  and,  owing  to  a  nauseous  smell  of 
tobacco,  escaped  nibbling  as  it  had  apparently  escaped 
insect  ravages.  This,  owing  to  its  sharp  angles,  which 
persisted  in  catching  in  the  soft  decaying  wood  in  his 
whirlwind  of  house-cleaning,  he  allowed  to  remain. 
Having  thus,  in  a  general  way,  prepared  for  the  coming 


34         A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

winter,  the  self-satisfied  little  rodent  dismissed  the  sub 
ject  from  his  active  mind. 

His  rage  and  indignation  a  few  days  later  may  be 
readily  conceived,  when  he  found,  on  returning  to  his 
new-made  home,  another  square  of  paper,  folded  like  the 
first,  but  much  fresher  and  whiter,  lying  within  the 
cavity,  on  top  of  some  moss  which  had  evidently  been 
placed  there  for  the  purpose.  This  he  felt  was  really 
more  than  he  could  bear,  but  it  was  smaller,  and  with  a  few 
energetic  kicks  and  whisks  of  his  tail  he  managed  to 
finally  dislodge  it  through  the  opening,  where  it  fell  igno- 
miniously  to  the  earth.  The  eager  eyes  of  the  ever- 
attendant  crow,  however,  instantly  detected  it;  he  flew 
to  the  ground,  and,  turning  it  over,  examined  it  gravely. 
It  was  certainly  not  edible,  but  it  was  exceedingly  rare, 
and,  as  an  old  collector  of  curios,  he  felt  he  could  not 
pass  it  by.  He  lifted  it  in  his  beak,  and,  with  a  desperate 
struggle  against  the  superincumbent  weight,  regained 
the  branch  with  his  prize.  Here,  by  one  of  those  deli 
cious  vagaries  of  animal  nature,  he  apparently  at  oncte 
discharged  his  mind  of  the  whole  affair,  became  utterly 
oblivious  of  it,  allowed  it  to  drop  without  the  least  con 
cern,  and  eventually  flew  away  with  an  abstracted  air, 
as  if  he  had  been  another  bird  entirely.  The  paper  got 
into  a  manzanita  bush,  where  tt  remainod  suspended 
until  the  evening,  when,  being  dislodged  by  a  passing 
wild-cat  on  its  way  to  Mulrady's  hen-roost,  it  gave  that 
delicately  sensitive  marauder  such  a  turn  that  she  fled 
into  the  adjacent  county. 

But  the  troubles  of  the  squirrel  were  not  yet  over. 
On  the  following  day  the  young  man  who  had  accom 
panied  the  young  woman  returned  to  the  trunk,  and  the 
squirrel  had  barely  time  to  make  his  escape  before  the 
impatient  visitor  approached  the  opening  of  the  cavity, 
peered  into  it,  and  even  passed  his  hand  through  its 
recesses.  The  delight  visible  upon  his  anxious  and 
serious  face  at  the  disappearance  of  the  letter,  and  the 
apparent  proof  that  it  had  been  called  for,  showed  him  to 
have  been  its  original  depositor,  and  probably  awakened 
a  remorseful  recollection  in  the  dark  bosom  of  the 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          35 

omnipresent  crow,  who  uttered  a  conscious-stricken 
croak  from  the  bough  above  him.  But  the  young  man 
quickly  disappeared  again,  and  the  squirrel  was  once 
more  left  in  undisputed  possession. 

A  week  passed.  A  weary,  anxious  interval  to  Don 
Csesar,  who  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  Mamie 
since  their  last  meeting.  Too  conscious  of  his  own  self- 
respect  to  call  at  the  house  after  the  equivocal  conduct 
of  Mrs.  Mulrady,  and  too  proud  to  haunt  the  lanes  and 
approaches  in  the  hope  of  meeting  her  daughter,  like 
an  ordinary  lover,  he  hid  his  gloomy  thoughts  in  the 
monastic  shadows  of  the  courtyard  at  Los  Gatos,  or 
found  relief  in  furious  riding  at  night  and  early  morn 
ing  on  the  highway.  Once  or  twice  the  up-stage  had 
been  overtaken  and  passed  by  a  rushing  figure  as  shad 
owy  as  a  phantom  horseman,  with  only  the  star-like 
point  of  a  cigarette  to  indicate  its  humanity.  It  was 
in  one  of  these  fierce  recreations  that  he  was  obliged 
to  stop  in  early  morning  at  the  blacksmith's  shop  at 
Rough-and-Ready,  to  have  a  loosened  horseshoe  replaced, 
and  while  waiting  picked  up  a  newspaper.  Don  Caesar 
seldom  read  the  papers,  but  noticing  that  this  was  the 
"Record,"  he  glanced  at  its  columns.  A  familiar  name 
suddenly  flashed  out  of  the  dark  type  like  a  spark  from 
the  anvil.  With  a  brain  and  heart  that  seemed  to  be 
beating  in  unison  with  the  blacksmith's  sledge,  he  read 
as  follows: — 

"Our  distinguished  fellow-townsman,  Alvin  Mulrady, 
Esq.,  left  town  day  before  yesterday  to  attend  an 
important  meeting  of  directors  of  the  Red  Dog  Ditch 
Company,  in  San  Francisco.  Society  will  regret  to  hear 
that  Mrs.  Mulrady  and  her  beautiful  and  accomplished 
daughter,  who  are  expecting  to  depart  for  Europe  at  the 
end  of  the  month,  anticipated  the  event  nearly  a  fort 
night,  by  taking  this  opportunity  of  accompanying  Mr. 
Mulrady  as  far  as  San  Francisco,  on  their  way  to  the 
East.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Mulrady  intend  to  visit  London, 
Paris,  and  Berlin,  and  will  be  absent  three  years.  It 
is  possible  that  Mr.  Mulrady  may  join  them  later  at  one 
or  other  of  those  capitals.  Considerable  disappointment 


36          A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH- AND  READY 

is  felt  that  a  more  extended  leave-taking  was  not  pos 
sible,  and  that,  under  the  circumstances,  no  opportunity 
was  offered  for  a  'send  off'  suitable  to  the  condition  of 
the  parties  and  the  esteem  in  which  they  are  held  in 
Rough-and- Ready." 

The  paper  dropped  from  his  hands.  Gone !  and  with 
out  a  word !  No,  that  was  impossible !  There  must  be 
some  mistake ;  she  had  written ;  the  letter  had  miscar 
ried  ;  she  must  have  sent  word  to  Los  Gatos,  and  the 
stupid  messenger  had  blundered;  she  had  probably  ap 
pointed  another  meeting,  or  expected  him  to  follow  to 
San  Francisco.  "The  day  before  yesterday !"  It  was 
the  morning's  paper — she  had  been  gone  scarcely  two 
days — it  was  not  too  late  yet  to  receive  a  delayed  mes 
sage  by  post,  by  some  forgetful  hand — by — ah — the  tree  ! 

Of  course  it  was  in  the  tree,  and  he  had  not  been 
there  for  a  week !  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it  be 
fore?  The  fault  was  his,  not  hers.  Perhaps  she  had 
gone  away,  believing  him  faithless,  or  a  country  boor. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Devil,  will  you  keep  me  here  till 
eternity !" 

The  blacksmith  stared  at  him.  Don  Caesar  suddenly 
remembered  that  he  was  speaking,  as  he  was  thinking — 
in  Spanish. 

"Ten  dollars,  my  friend,  if  you  have  done  in  five 
minutes!" 

The  man  laughed.  "That's  good  enough  American," 
he  said,  beginning  to  quicken  his  efforts.  Don  Gfesar 
again  took  up  the  paper.  There  was  another  paragraph 
that  recalled  his  last  interview  with  Mamie: — 

"Mr.  Harry  Slinn,  Jr.,  the  editor  of  this  paper,  has 
just  moved  into  the  pioneer  house  formerly  occupied 
by  Alvin  Mulrady,  Esq.,  which  has  already  become  his 
toric  in  the  annals  of  the  county.  Mr.  Slinn  brings 
with  him  his  father — H.  J.  Slinn,  Esq., — and  his 
two  sisters.  Mr.  Slinn,  Sen.,  who  has  been  suffering 
for  many  years  from  complete  paralysis,  we  understand 
is  slowly  improving;  and  it  is  by  the  advice  of  his  physi 
cians  that  he  has  chosen  the  invigorating  air  of  the  foot 
hills  as  a  change  to  the  debilitating  heat  of  Sacramento." 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          37 

The  affair  had  been  quickly  settled,  certainly,  reflected 
Don  Caesar,  with  a  slight  chill  of  jealousy,  as  he  thought 
of  Mamie's  interest  in  the  young  editor.  But  the  next 
moment  he  dismissed  it  from  his  mind;  all  except  a  dull 
consciousness  that,  if  she  really  loved  him — Don  Caesar 
— as  he  loved  her,  she  could  not  have  assisted  in  throw 
ing  into  his  society  the  young  sisters  of  the  editor,  who 
she  expected  might  be  so  attractive. 

Within  the  five  minutes  the  horse  was  ready,  and  Don 
Caesar  in  the  saddle  again.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  he 
was  at  the  wayside  boulder.  Here  he  picketed  his  horse, 
and  took  the  narrow  foot-trail  through  the  hollow.  It 
did  not  take  him  long  to  reach  their  old  trysting-place. 
With  a  beating  heart  he  approached  the  decaying  trunk 
and  looked  into  the  cavity.  There  was  no  letter  there! 

A  few  blackened  nuts  and  some  of  the  dry  moss  he  had 
put  there  were  lying  on  the  ground  at  its  roots.  He 
could  not  remember  whether  they  were  there  when  he 
had  last  visited  the  spot.  He  began  to  grope  in  the 
cavity  with  both  hands.  His  fingers  struck  against  the 
sharp  angles  of  a  flat  paper  packet:  a  thrill  of  joy  ran 
through  them  and  stopped  his  beating  heart;  he  drew 
out  the  hidden  object,  and  was  chilled  with  disappoint 
ment. 

It  was  an  ordinary-sized  envelope  of  yellowish-brown 
paper,  bearing,  besides  the  usual  government  stamp,  the 
official  legend  of  an  express  company,  and  showing  its 
age  as  much  by  this  record  of  a  now  obsolete  carrying 
service  as  by  the  discoloration  of  time  and  atmosphere. 
Its  weight,  which  was  heavier  than  that  of  any  ordinary 
letter  of  the  same  size  and  thickness,  was  evidently  due  to 
some  loose  enclosures,  that  slightly  rustled  and  could  be 
felt  by  the  fingers,  like  minute  pieces  of  metal  or  grains 
of  gravel.  It  was  within  Don  Caesar's  experience  that 
gold  specimens  were  often  sent  in  that  manner.  It  was 
in  a  state  of  singular  preservation,  except  the  address, 
which,  being  written  in  pencil,  was  scarcely  discernible, 
and  even  when  deciphered  appeared  to  be  incoherent 
and  unfinished.  The  unknown  correspondent  had  writ 
ten  "dear  Mary,"  and  then  "Mrs.  Mary  Slinn,"  with  an 


38         A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

unintelligible  scrawl  following  for  the  direction.  If  Don 
Caesar's  mind  had  not  been  lately  preoccupied  with  the 
name  of  the  editor,  he  would  hardly  have  guessed  the 
superscription. 

In  his  cruel  disappointment  and  fully  aroused  indigna 
tion,  he  at  once  began  to  suspect  a  connection  of  cir 
cumstances  which  at  any  other  moment  he  would  have 
thought  purely  accidental,  or  perhaps  not  have  consid 
ered  at  all.  The  cavity  in  the  tree  had  evidently  been 
used  as  a  secret  receptacle  for  letters  before ;  did  Mamie 
know  it  at  the  time,  and  how  did  she  know  it?  The  ap 
parent  age  of  the  letter  made  it  preposterous  to  suppose 
that  it  pointed  to  any  secret  correspondence  of  hers  with 
young  Mr.  Slinn;  and  the  address  was  not  in  her  hand 
writing.  Was  there  any  secret  previous  intimacy  be 
tween  the  families?  There  was  but  one  way  in  which 
he  could  connect  this  letter  with  Mamie's  faithlessness. 
It  was  an  infamous,  a  grotesquely  horrible  idea,  a 
thought  which  sprang  as  much  from  his  inexperience  of 
the  world  and  his  habitual  suspiciousness  of  all  humor 
as  anything  else !  It  was  that  the  letter  was  a  brutal 
joke  of  Slinn's — a  joke  perhaps  concocted  by  Mamie 
and  himself — a  parting  insult  that  should  at  the  last 
moment  proclaim  their  treachery  and  his  own  credulity. 
Doubtless  it  contained  a  declaration  of  their  shame,  and 
the  reason  why  she  had  fled  from  him  without  a  word 
of  explanation.  And  the  enclosure,  of  course,  was  some 
significant  and  degrading  illustration.  Those  Americans 
are  full  of  those  low  conceits;  it  was  their  national  vul 
garity. 

He  had  the  letter  in  his  angry  hand.  He  could  break 
it  open  if  he  wished  and  satisfy  himself;  but  it  was  not 
addressed  to  him,  and  the  instinct  of  honor,  strong  even 
in  his  rage,  was  the  instinct  of  an  adversary  as  well. 
No;  Slinn  should  open  the  letter  before  him.  Slinn 
should  explain  everything,  and  answer  for  it.  If  it  was 
nothing — a  mere  accident — it  would  lead  to  some  general 
explanation,  and  perhaps  even  news  of  Mamie.  But 
he  would  arraign  Slinn,  and  at  once.  He  put  the  letter 
in  his  pocket,  quickly  retraced  his  steps  to  his  horse,  and, 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY         39 

putting  spurs  to  the  animal,  followed  the  high  road  to 
the  gate  of  Mulrady's  pioneer  cabin. 

He  remembered  it  well  enough.  To  a  cultivated  taste, 
it  was  superior  to  the  more  pretentious  "new  house." 
During  the  first  year  of  Mulrady's  tenancy,  the  plain 
square  log-cabin  had  received  those  additions  and  at 
tractions  which  only  a  tenant  can  conceive  and  actual 
experience  suggest;  and  in  this  way  the  hideous  right 
angles  were  broken  with  sheds,  "lean-to"  extensions, 
until  a  certain  picturesqueness  was  given  to  the  irregu 
larity  of  outline,  and  a  home-like  security  and  compan 
ionship  to  the  congregated  buildings.  It  typified  the 
former  life  of  the  great  capitalist,  as  the  tall  new  house 
illustrated  the  loneliness  and  isolation  that  wealth  had 
given  him.  But  the  real  points  of  vantage  were  the 
years  of  cultivation  and  habitation  that  had  warmed  and 
enriched  the  soil,  and  evoked  the  climbing  vines  and 
roses  that  already  hid  its  unpainted  boards,  rounded  its 
hard  outlines,  and  gave  projection  and  shadow  from  the 
pitiless  glare  of  a  summer's  long  sun,  or  broke  the 
steady  beating  of  the  winter  rains.  It  was  true  that  pea 
and  bean  poles  surrounded  it  on  one  side,  and  the  only 
access  to  the  house  was  through  the  cabbage  rows  that 
once  were  the  pride  and  sustenance  of  the  Mulradys. 
It  was  this  fact,  more  than  any  other,  that  had  impelled 
Mrs.  Mulrady  to  abandon  its  site;  she  did  not  like  to 
read  the  history  of  their  humble  origin  reflected  in  the 
faces  of  their  visitors  as  they  entered. 

Don  Caesar  tied  his  horse  to  the  fence,  and  hurriedly 
approached  the  house.  The  door,  however,  hospitably 
opened  when  he  was  a  few  paces  from  it,  and  when  he 
reached  the  threshold  he  found  himself  unexpectedly  in 
the  presence  of  two  pretty  girls.  They  were  evidently 
Slinn's  sisters,  whom  he  had  neither  thought  of  nor 
included  in  the  meeting  he  had  prepared.  In  spite 
of  his  preoccupation,  he  felt  himself  suddenly  embar 
rassed,  not  only  by  the  actual  distinction  of  their  beauty, 
but  by  a  kind  of  likeness  that  they  seemed  to  bear  to 
Mamie. 

"We   saw  you   ceming,"  sfeid   the   elder,   unaffectedly. 


40          A    MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

"You  are  Don  Caesar  Alvarado.  My  brother  has  spoken 
of  you." 

The  words  recalled  Don  Caesar  to  himself  and  a  sense 
of  courtesy.  He  was  not  here  to  quarrel  with  these  fair 
strangers  at  their  first  meeting;  he  must  seek  Slinn  else 
where,  and  at  another  time.  The  frankness  of  his  re 
ception  and  the  allusion  to  their  brother  made  it  appear 
impossible  that  they  should  be  either  a  party  to  his  dis 
appointment,  or  even  aware  of  it.  His  excitement  melted 
away  before  a  certain  lazy  ease,  which  the  conscious 
ness  of  their  beauty  seemed  to  give  them.  He  was 
able  to  put  a  few  courteous  inquiries,  and,  thanks  to  the 
paragraph  in  the  "Record,"  to  congratulate  them  upon 
their  father's  improvement. 

"Oh,  pa  is  a  great  deal  better  in  his  health,  and  has 
picked  up  even  in  the  last  few  days,  so  that  he  is  able 
to  walk  round  with  crutches,"  said  the  elder  sister.  "The 
air  here  seems  to  invigorate  him  wonderfully." 

"And  you  know,  Esther,"  said  the  younger,  "I  think 
he  begins  to  take  more  notice  of  things,  especially  when 
he  is  out-of-doors.  He  looks  around  on  the  scenery,  and 
his  eye  brightens,  as  if  he  knew  all  about  it;  and  some 
times  he  knits  his  brows,  and  looks  down  so,  as  if  he 
was  trying  to  remember." 

"You  know,  I  suppose,"  exclaimed  Esther,  "that  since 
his  seizure  his  memory  has  been  a  blank — that  is,  three 
or  four  years  of  his  life  seem  to  have  been  dropped  out 
of  his  recollection." 

"It  might  be  a  mercy  sometimes,  Sefiora,"  said  Don 
Caesar,  with  a  grave  sigh,  as  he  looked  at  the  delicate 
features  before  him,  which  recalled  the  face  of  the  ab 
sent  Mamie. 

"That's  not  very  complimentary,"  said  the  younger 
girl,  laughingly;  "for  pa  didn't  recognize  us,  and  only 
remembered  us  as  little  girls." 

"Vashti !"  interrupted  Esther,  rebukingly ;  then,  turn 
ing  to  Don  Caesar,  she  added,  "My  sister,  Vashti,  means 
that  father  remembers  more  what  happened  before  he 
came  to  California,  when  we  were  quite  young,  than  he 
does  of  the  interval  that  elapsed.  Dr.  Duchesne  says 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          41 

it's  a  singular  case.  He  thinks  that,  with  his  present 
progress,  he  will  recover  the  perfect  use  of  his  limbs ; 
though  his  memory  may  never  come  back  again." 

"Unless —  You  forget  what  the  doctor  told  us  this 
morning,"  interrupted  Vashti  again,  briskly. 

"I  was  going  to  say  it,"  said  Esther,  a  little  curtly. 
"Unless  he  has  another  stroke.  Then  he  will  either  die 
or  recover  his  mind  entirely." 

Don  Caesar  glanced  at  the  bright  faces,  a  trifle 
heightened  in  color  by  their  eager  recital  and  the  slight 
rivalry  of  narration,  and  looked  grave.  He  was  a  little 
shocked  at  a  certain  lack  of  sympathy  and  tenderness 
towards  their  unhappy  parent.  They  seemed  to  him  not 
only  to  have  caught  that  dry,  curious  toleration  of  help 
lessness  which  characterizes  even  relationship  in  its 
attendance  upon  chronic  suffering  and  weakness,  but  to 
have  acquired  an  unconscious  habit  of  turning  it  to 
account.  In  his  present  sensitive  condition,  he  even 
fancied  that  they  flirted  mildly  over  their  parent's 
infirmity. 

"My  brother  Harry  has  gone  to  Red  Dog,"  con 
tinued  Esther;  "he'll  be  right  sorry  to  have  missed  you. 
Mrs.  Mulrady  spoke  to  him  about  you;  you  seem  to 
have  been  great  friends.  I  s'pose  you  knew  her 
daughter,  Mamie;  I  hear  she  is  very  pretty." 

Although  Don  Caesar  was  now  satisfied  that  the  Slinns 
knew  nothing  of  Mamie's  singular  behavior  to  him,  he 
felt  embarrassed  by  this  conversation.  "Miss  Mulrady  is 
very  pretty,"  he  said,  with  grave  courtesy;  "it  is  a  cus 
tom  of  her  race.  She  left  suddenly,"  he  added  with  af 
fected  calmness. 

"I  reckon  she  did  calculate  to  stay  here  longer — so 
her  mother  said;  but  the  whole  thing  was  settled  a  week 
ago.  I  know  my  brother  was  quite  surprised  to  hear 
from  Mr.  Mulrady  that  if  we  were  going  to  decide  about 
this  house  we  must  do  it  at  once;  he  had  an  idea  him 
self  about  moving  out  of  the  big  one  into  this  when  they 
left." 

"Mamie  Mulrady  hadn't  much  to  keep  her  here,  con- 
siderin'  the  money  and  the  good  looks  she  has,  I  reckon," 


4:2          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

said  Vashti.  "She  isn't  the  sort  of  girl  to  throw  herself 
away  in  the  wilderness,  when  she  can  pick  and  choose 
elsewhere.  I  only  wonder  she  ever  come  back  from 
Sacramento.  They  talk  about  papa  Mulrady  having 
business  at  San  Francisco,  and  that  hurrying  them  off ! 
Depend  upon  it,  that  'business'  was  Mamie  herself.  Her 
wish  is  gospel  to  them.  If  she'd  wanted  to  stay  and 
have  a  farewell  party,  old  Mulrady's  business  would  have 
been  nowhere." 

"Ain't  you  a  little  rough  on  Mamie,"  said  Esther,  who 
had  been  quietly  watching  the  young  man's  face  with 
her  large  languid  eyes,  "considering  that  we  don't  know 
her,  and  haven't  even  the  right  of  friends  to  criticise?" 

"I  don't  call  it  rough,"  returned  Vashti,  frankly,  "for 
I'd  do  the  same  if  I  were  in  her  shoes — and  they're 
four-and-a-halves,  for  Harry  told  me  so.  Give  me  her 
money  and  her  looks,  and  you  wouldn't  catch  me  hang 
ing  round  these  diggings — goin'  to  choir  meetings  Sat 
urdays,  church  Sundays,  and  buggy-riding  once  a  month 
— for  society  !  No — Mamie's  head  was  level — you  bet !" 

Don  Caesar  rose  hurriedly.  They  would  present  his 
compliments  to  their  father,  and  he  would  endeavor  to 
find  their  brother  at  Red  Dog.  He,  alas !  had  neither 
father,  mother,  nor  sister,  but  if  they  would  receive  his 
aunt,  the  Dona  Inez  Sepulvida,  the  next  Sunday,  when 
she  came  from  mass,  she  should  be  honored  and  he  would 
be  delighted.  It  required  all  his  self-possession  to  de 
liver  himself  of  this  for'  *al  courtesy  before  he  could  take 
his  leave,  and  on  the  back  of  his  mustang  give  way  to 
the  rage,  disgust  and  hatred  of  everything  connected 
with  Mamie  that  filled  his  heart.  Conscious  of  his  dis 
turbance,  but  rot  entirely  appreciating  their  own  share 
in  it,  the  two  girls  somewhat  wickedly  prolonged  the  in 
terview  by  following  him  into  the  garden. 

"Well,  if  you  must  leave  now,"  said  Esther,  at  last, 
languidly,  "it  ain't  much  out  of  your  way  to  go  down 
through  the  garden  and  take  a  look  at  pa  as  you  go.  He's 
somewhere  down  there,  near  the  woods,  and  we  don't 
like  to  leave  him  alone  too  long.  You  might  pass  the 
time  of  day  with  him;  see  if  he's  right  side  up.  Vashti 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF  .ROUGH-AND-READY         43 

and  I  have  got  a  heap  of  things  to  fix  here  yet;  but  if 
anything^  wrong  with  him,  you  can  call  us.  So-long." 

Don  Caesar  was  about  to  excuse  himself  hurriedly ;  but 
that  sudden  and  acute  perception  of  all  kindred  sorrow 
which  belongs  to  refined  suffering,  checked  his  speech. 
The  loneliness  of  the  helpless  old  man  in  this  atmosphere 
of  active  and  youthful  selfishness  touched  him.  He 
bowed  assent,  and  turned  aside  into  one  of  the  long 
perspectives  of  bean-poles.  The  girls  watched  him  until 
out  of  sight. 

"Well,"  said  Vashti,  "don't  tell  me.  But  if  there 
wasn't  something  between  him  and  that  Mamie  Mulrady, 
I  don't  know  a  jilted  man  when  I  see  him." 

"Well,  you  needn't  have  let  him  see  that  you  knew  it, 
so  that  any  civility  of  ours  would  look  as  if  we  were 
ready  to  take  up  with  her  leavings,"  responded  Esther, 
astutely,  as  the  girls  reentered  the  house. 

Meantime,  the  unconscious  object  of  their  criticism 
walked  sadly  down  the  old  market-garden,  whose  rude 
outlines  and  homely  details  he  once  clothed  with  the 
poetry  of  a  sensitive  man's  first  love.  Well,  it  was  a 
common  cabbage  field  and  potato  patch  after  all.  In  his 
disgust  he  felt  conscious  of  even  the  loss  of  that  sense 
of  patronage  and  superiority  which  had  invested  his 
affection  for  a  girl  of  meaner  condition.  His  self-respect 
was  humiliated  with  his  love.  The  soil  and  dirt  of  those 
wretched  cabbages  had  clung  to  him,  but  not  to  her. 
It  was  she  who  had  gone  higher ;  it  was  he  who  was 
left  in  the  vulgar  ruins  of  his  misplaced  passion. 

He  reached  the  bottom  of  the  garden  without  observ 
ing  any  sign  of  the  lonely  invalid.  He  looked  up  and 
down  the  cabbage  rows,  and  through  the  long  perspective 
of  pea-vines,  without  result.  There  was  a  newer  trail 
leading  from  a  gap  in  the  pines  to  the  wooded  hollow, 
which  undoubtedly  intersected  the  little  path  that  he 
and  Mamie  had  once  followed  from  the  high  road.  If 
the  old  man  had  taken  this  trail  he  had  possibly  over 
tasked  his  strength,  and  there  was  the  more  reason  why 
he  should  continue  his  search,  and  render  any  assistance 
if  required.  There  was  another  idea  that  occurred  to 


44          A   MILLIONAIRE    OK  ROUGH-AND-READY 

him,  which  eventually  decided  him  to  go  on.  It  was 
that  both  these  trails  led  to  the  decayed  sycamore  stump, 
and  that  the  older  Slinn  might  have  something  to  do 
with  the  mysterious  letter.  Quickening  his  steps  through 
the  field,  he  entered  the  hollow,  and  reached  the  inter 
secting  trail  as  he  expected.  To  the  right  it  lost  itself 
in  the  dense  woods  in  the  direction  of  the  ominous 
stump;  to  the  left  it  descended  in  nearly  a  straight  line 
to  the  highway,  now  plainly  visible,  as  was  equally  the 
boulder  on  which  he  had  last  discovered  Mamie  sitting 
with  young  Slinn.  If  he  were  not  mistaken,  there  was  a 
figure  sitting  there  now ;  it  was  surely  a  man.  And  by 
that  half-bowed,  helpless  attitude,  the  object  of  his 
search ! 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  descend  the  track  to  the 
highway  and  approach  the  stranger.  He  was  seated  with 
his  hands  upon  his  knees,  gazing  in  a  vague,  absorbed 
fashion  upon  the  hillside,  now  crowned  with  the  engine- 
house  and  chimney  that  marked  the  site  of  Mulrady's 
shaft.  He  started  slightly,  and  looked  up,  as  Don  Caesar 
paused  before  him.  The  young  man  was  surprised  to 
see  that  the  unfortunate  man  was  not  as  old  as  he  had 
expected,  and  that  his  expression  was  one  of  quiet  and 
beatified  contentment. 

"Your  daughters  told  me  you  were  here,"  said  Don 
Caesar,  with  gentle  respect.  "I  am  Caesar  Alvarado,  your 
not  very  far  neighbor ;  very  happy  to  pay  his  respects  to 
you  as  he  has  to  them." 

"My  daughters?"  said  the  old  man,  vaguely.  "Oh, 
yes!  nice  little  girls.  And  my  boy  Harry.  Did  you  see 
Harry?  Fine  little  fellow,  Harry." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  better,"  said  Don 
Caesar,  hastily,  "and  that  the  air  of  our  country  does 
you  no  harm.  God  benefit  you,  senor,"  he  added,  with  a 
profoundly  reverential  gesture,  dropping  unconsciously 
into  the  religious  habit  of  his  youth.  "May  he  protect 
you,  and  bring  you  back  to  health  and  happiness!" 

"Happiness?"  said  Slinn,  amazedly.  "I  am-  happy — 
very  happy!  I  have  everything  I  want:  good  air,  good 
food,  good  clothes,  pretty  little  children,  kind  friends — " 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          45 

He  smiled   benignantly   at   Don    Caesar.     "God   is  'very 
good   to   me !" 

Indeed,  he  seemed  very  happy;  and  his  face,  albeit 
crowned  with  white  hair,  unmarked  by  care  and  any 
disturbing  impression,  had  so  much  of  satisfied  youth  in 
it  that  the  grave  features  of  his  questioner  made  him 
appear  the  elder.  Nevertheless,  Don  Caesar  noticed  that 
his  eyes,  when  withdrawn  from  him,  sought  the  hillside 
with  the  same  visionary  abstraction. 

"It  is  a  fine  view,  Senor  Esslinn,"  said  Don  Caesar. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  view,  sir,"  said  Slinn,  turning  his 
happy  eyes  upon  him  for  a  moment,  only  to  rest  them 
again  on  the  green  slope  opposite. 

"Beyond  that  hill  which  you  are  looking  at — not  far, 
Senor  Esslinn — I  live.  You  shall  come  and  see  me 
there — you  and  your  family." 

"You — you — live  there?"  stammered  the  invalid,  with 
a  troubled  expression — the  first  and  only  change  to  the 
complete  happiness  that  had  hitherto  suffused  his  face. 
"You — and  your  name  is — is  Ma — " 

"Alvarado,"  said  Don  Caesar,  gently.  Caesar  Alva- 
rado." 

"You  said  Masters,"  said  the  old  man,  with  sudden 
querulousness. 

"No,  good  friend.  I  said  Alvarado,"  returned  Don 
Caesar,  gravely. 

"If  you  didn't  say  Masters,  how  could  /  say  it?  I 
don't  know  any  Masters." 

Don  Caesar  was  silent.  In  another  moment  the  happy 
tranquillity  returned  to  Slinn's  face;  and  Don  Caesar 
continued : — 

"It  is  not  a  long  walk  over  the  hill,  though  it  is  far 
by  the  road.  When  you  are  better  you  shall  try  it. 
Yonder  little  trail  leads  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
then—" 

He  stopped,  for  the  invalid's  face  had  again  assumed 
its  troubled  expression.     Partly  to  change  his  thoughts, 
and  partly  for  some  inexplicable  idea  that  had  suddenly 
seized  him,  Don  Caesar  continued: — 
'     "There  is  a  strange  old  stump  near  the  trail,  and  in  it 


46          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

a  hole.  In  the  hole  I  found  this  letter."  He  stopped 
again — this  time  in  alarm.  Slinn  had  staggered  to  his 
feet  with  ashen  and  distorted  features,  and  was  glancing 
at  the  letter  which  Don  Caesar  had  drawn  from  his 
pocket.  The  muscles  of  his  throat  swelled  as  if  he  was 
swallowing;  his  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  issued  from 
them.  At  last,  with  a  convulsive  effort,  he  regained  a 
disjointed  speech,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible. 

"My  letter  !  my  letter  !  It's  mine  !  Give  it  me  !  It's 
my  fortune — all  mine !  In  the  tunnel — hill !  Masters 
stole  it — stole  my  fortune  !  Stole  it  all !  See,  see  !" 

He  seized  the  letter  from  Don  Caesar  with  trembling 
hands,  and  tore  it  open  forcibly :  a  few  dull  yellow  grains 
fell  from  it  heavily,  like  shot,  to  the  ground. 

"See,  it's  true  !  My  letter  !  My  gold  !  My  strike  ! 
My — my — my  God  !" 

A  tremor  passed  over  his  face.  The  hand  that  held 
the  letter  suddenly  dropped  sheer  and  heavy  as  the  gold 
had  fallen.  The  whole  side  of  his  face  and  body  nearest 
Don  Caesar  seemed  to  drop  and  sink  into  itself  as  sud 
denly.  At  the  same  moment,  and  without  a  word,  he 
slipped  through  Don  Caesar's  outstretched  hands  to  the 
ground.  Don  Caesar  bent  quickly  over  him,  but  no  longer 
than  to  satisfy  himself  that  he  lived  and  breathed, 
although  helpless.  He  then  caught  up  the  fallen  letter, 
and,  glancing  over  it  with  flashing  eyes,  thrust  it  and 
the  few  specimens  in  his  pocket.  He  then  sprang  to  his 
feet,  so  transformed  with  energy  and  intelligence  that 
he  seemed  to  have  added  the  lost  vitality  of  the  man  be 
fore  him  to  fiis  own.  He  glanced  quickly  up  and  down 
the  highway.  Every  moment  to  him  was  precious  now; 
but  he  could  not  leave  the  stricken  man  in  the  dust  of 
the  road;  nor  could  he  carry  him  to  the  house;  nor, 
having  alarmed  his  daughters,  could  he  abandon  his 
helplessness  to  their  feeble  arms.  He  remembered  that 
his  horse  was  still  tied  to  the  garden  fence.  He  would 
fetch  it,  and  carry  the  unfortunate  man  across  the  saddle 
to  the  gate.  He  lifted  him  with  difficulty  to  the  boulder, 
and  ran  rapidly  up  the  road  in  the  direction  of  his  teth 
ered  steed.  He  had  not  proceeded  far  when  he  heard 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          47 

the  noise  of  wheels  behind  him.  It  was  the  up  stage 
coming  furiously  along.  He  would  have  called  to  the 
driver  for  assistance,  but  even  through  that  fast-sweeping 
cloud  of  dust  and  motion  he  could  see  that  the  man  was 
utterly  oblivious  of  anything  but  the  speed  of  his  rushing 
chariot,  and  had  even  risen  in  his  box  to  lash  the  infu 
riated  and  frightened  animals  forward. 

An  hour  later,  when  the  coach  drew  up  at  the  Red 
Dog  Hotel,  the  driver  descended  from  the  box,  white, 
but  taciturn.  When  he  had  swallowed  a  glass  of  whiskey 
at  a  single  gulp,  he  turned  to  the  astonished  express 
agent,  who  had  followed  him  in. 

"One  of  two  things,  Jim,  hez  got  to  happen,"  he  said, 
huskily.  "Either  that  there  rock  hez  got  to  get  off  the 
road,  or  I  have.  I've  seed  him  on  it  agin !" 


CHAPTER  IV 

No  further  particulars  of  the  invalid's  second  attack 
were  known  than  those  furnished  by  Don  Caesar's  brief 
statement,  that  he  had  found  him  lying  insensible  on  the 
boulder.  This  seemed  perfectly  consistent  with  the  theory 
of  Dr.  Duchesne;  and  as  the  young  Spaniard  left  Los 
Gatos  the  next  day,  he  escaped  not  only  the  active  re 
porter  of  the  "Record,"  but  the  perusal  of  a  grateful  para 
graph  in  the  next  day's  paper  recording  his  prompt 
kindness  and  courtesy.  Dr.  Duchesne's  prognosis,  how 
ever,  seemed  at  fault;  the  elder  Slinn  did  not  succumb  to 
this  second  stroke,  nor  did  he  recover  his  reason.  He 
apparently  only  relapsed  into  his  former  physical  weak 
ness,  losing  the  little  ground  he  had  gained  during  the 
last  month,  and  exhibiting  no  change  in  his  mental  con 
dition,  unless  the  fact  that  he  remembered  nothing  of  his 
seizure  and  the  presence  of  Don  Caesar  could  be  consid 
ered  as  favorable.  Dr.  Duchesne's  gravity  seemed  to  give 
that  significance  to  this  symptom,  and  his  cross-question 
ing  of  the  patient  was  characterized  by  more  than  his 
usual  curtness. 

"You   are    sure   you   don't   remember   walking   in   the 


48          A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

garden  before  you  were  ill?"  he  said.  "Come,  think 
again.  You  must  remember  that."  The  old  man's  eyes 
wandered  restlessly  around  the  room,  but  he  answered 
by  a  negative  shake  of  his  head.  "And  you  don't  re 
member  sitting  down  on  a  stone  by  the  road?" 

The  old  man  kept  his  eyes  resolutely  fixed  on  the  bed 
clothes  before  him.  "No !"  he  said,  with  a  certain  sharp 
decision  that  was  new  to  him. 

The  doctor's  eye  brightened.  "All  right,  old  man; 
then  don't." 

On  his  way  out  he  took  the  eldest  Miss  Slinn  aside. 
"He'll  do,"  he  said,  grimly:  "he's  beginning  to  lie." 

"Why,  he  only  said  he  didn't  remember,"  responded 
Esther. 

"That  was  because  he  didn't  want  to  remember,"  said 
the  doctor,  authoritatively.  "The  brain  is  acting  on 
some  impression  that  is  either  painful  and  unpleasant,  or 
so  vague  that  he  can't  formulate  it;  he  is  conscious  of  it, 
and  won't  attempt  it  yet.  It's  a  heap  better  than  his  old 
self-satisfied  incoherency." 

A  few  days  later,  when  the  fact  of  Slinn's  identification 
with  the  paralytic  of  three  years  ago  by  the  stage-driver 
became  generally  known,  the  doctor  came  in  quite  jubi 
lant. 

"It's  all  plain  now,"  he  said,  decidedly.  "That  second 
stroke  was  caused  by  the  nervous  shock  of  his  coming 
suddenly  upon  the  very  spot  where  he  had  the  first  one. 
It  proved  that  his  brain  still  retained  old  impressions, 
but  as  this  first  act  of  his  memory  was  a  painful  one,  the 
strain  was  too  great.  It  was  mighty  unlucky ;  but  it  was 
a  good  sign." 

"And  you  think,  then — "  hesitated  Harry  Slinn. 

"I  think,"  said  Dr.  Duchesne,  "that  this  activity  still 
exists,  and  the  proof  of  it,  as  I  said  before,  is  that  he 
is  trying  now  to  forget  it,  and  avoid  thinking  of  it.  You 
will  find  that  he  will  fight  shy  of  any  allusion  to  it,  and 
will  be  cunning  enough  to  dodge  it  every  time." 

He  certainly  did.  Whether  the  doctor's  hypothesis 
was  fairly  based  or  not,  it  was  a  fact  that,  when  he  was 
first  taken  out  to  drive  with  his  watchful  physician,  he 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          49 

apparently  took  no  notice  of  the  boulder — which  still  re 
mained  on  the  roadside,  thanks  to  the  later  practical  ex 
planation  of  the  stage-driver's  vision — and  curtly  refused 
to  talk  about  it.  But,  more  significant  to  Duchesne,  and 
perhaps  more  perplexing,  was  a  certain  morose  abstrac 
tion,  which  took  the  place  of  his  former  vacuity  of  con 
tentment,  and  an  intolerance  of  his  attendants,  which 
supplanted  his  old  habitual  trustfulness  to  their  care,  that 
had  been  varied  only  by  the  occasional  querulousness  of 
an  invalid.  His  daughters  sometimes  found  him  regard 
ing  them  with  an  attention  little  short  of  suspicion,  and 
even  his  son  detected  a  half-suppressed  aversion  in  his 
interviews  with  him. 

Referring  this  among  themselves  to  his  unfortunate 
malady,  his  children,  perhaps,  justified  this  estrangement 
by  paying  very  little  attention  to  it.  They  were  more 
pleasantly  occupied.  The  two  girls  succeeded  to  the 
position  held  by  Mamie  Mulrady  in  the  society  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  divided  the  attentions  of  Rough-and- 
Ready.  The  young  editor  of  the  "Record"  had  really 
achieved,  through  his  supposed  intimacy  with  the  Mul- 
radys,  the  good  fortune  he  had  jestingly  prophesied.  The 
disappearance  of  Don  Caesar  was  regarded  as  a  virtual 
abandonment  of  the  field  to  his  rival :  and  the  general 
opinion  was  that  he  was  engaged  to  the  millionaire's 
daughter  on  a  certain  probation  of  work  and  influence 
in  his  prospective  father-in-law's  interests.  He  became 
successful  in  one  or  two  speculations,  the  magic  of  the 
lucky  Mulrady's  name  befriending  him.  In  the  supersti 
tion  of  the  mining  community,  much  of  this  luck  was  due 
to  his  having  secured  the  old  cabin. 

"To  think,"  remarked  one  of  the  augurs  of  Red  Dog, 

French  Pete,  a  polyglot  jester,  "that  while  every  d d 

fool  went  to  taking  up  claims  where  the  gold  had  already 
been  found  no  one  thought  of  stepping  into  the  old  man's 
old  choux  in  the  cabbage-garden !"  Any  doubt,  however, 
of  the  alliance  of  the  families  was  dissipated  by  the  inti 
macy  that  sprang  up  between  the  elder  Slinn  and  the 
millionaire,  after  the  latter's  return  from  San  Fran 
cisco. 


50          A   MILLIONAIKE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

It  began  in  a  strange  kind  of  pity  for  the  physical 
weakness  of  the  man,  which  enlisted  the  sympathies  of 
Mulrady,  whose  great  strength  had  never  been  deterio 
rated  by  the  luxuries  of  wealth,  and  who  was  still  able 
to  set  his  workmen  an  example  of  hard  labor;  it  was 
sustained  by  a  singular  and  superstitious  reverence  for 
his  mental  condition,  which,  to  the  paternal  Mulrady, 
seemed  to  possess  that  spiritual  quality  with  which 
popular  ignorance  invests  demented  people. 

"Then  you  mean  to  say  that  during  these  three  years 
the  vein  o'  your  mind,  so  to  speak,  was  a  lost  lead,  and 
sorter  dropped  out  o'  sight  or  follerin'?"  queried  Mul 
rady,  with  infinite  seriousness. 

"Yes,"  returned  Slinn,  with  less  impatience  than  he 
usually  showed  to  questions. 

"And  durin'  that  time,  when  you  was  dried  up  and 
waitin'  for  rain,  I  reckon  you  kinder  had  visions?" 

A  cloud  passed  over  Slinn's  face. 

"Of  course,  of  course !"  said  Mulrady,  a  little  fright 
ened  at  his  tenacity  in  questioning  the  oracle.  "Nat'rally, 
this  was  private,  and  not  to  be  talked  about.  I  meant, 
you  had  plenty  of  room  for  'em  without  crowdin';  you 
kin  tell  me  some  day  when  you're  better,  and  kin  sorter 
select  what's  points  and  what  ain't." 

"Perhaps  I  may  some  day,"  said  the  invalid,  gloomily, 
glancing  in  the  direction  of  his  preoccupied  daughters; 
"when  we're  alone." 

When  his  physical  strength  had  improved,  and  his 
left  arm  and  side  had  regained  a  feeble  but  slowly  gath 
ering  vitality,  Alvin  Mulrady  one  day  surprised  the 
family  by  bringing  the  convalescent  a  pile  of  letters  and 
accounts,  and  spreading  them  on  a  board  before  Slinn's 
invalid  chair,  with  the  suggestion  that  he  should  look 
over,  arrange,  and  docket  them.  The  idea  seemed  pre 
posterous,  until  it  was  found  that  the  old  man  was 
actually  able  to  perform  this  service,  and  exhibited  a 
degree  of  intellectual  activity  and  capacity  for  this 
kind  of  work  that  was  unsuspected.  Dr.  Duchesne  was 
delighted,  and  divided  *vith  admiration  between  "his 
patient's  progress  and  the  millionaire's  sagacity.  "And 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          51 

there  are  envious  people,"  said  the  enthusiastic  doctor, 
"who  believe  that  a  man  like  him,  who  could  conceive 
of  such  a  plan  for  occupying  a  weak  intellect  without 
taxing  its  memory  or  judgment,  is  merely  a  lucky  fool! 
Look  here.  May  be  it  didn't  require  much  brains  to 
stumble  on  a  gold  mine,  and  it  is  a  gift  of  Providence. 
But,  in  my  experience,  Providence  don't  go  round  buyin' 
Up  d d  fools,  or  investin'  in  dead  beats." 

When  Mr.  Slinn,  finally,  with  the  aid  of  crutches, 
was  able  to  hobble  every  day  to  the  imposing  counting- 
house  and  the  office  of  Mr.  Mulrady,  which  now  occu 
pied  the  lower  part  of  the  new  house,  and  contained 
some  of  its  gorgeous  furniture,  he  was  installed  at  a 
rosewood  desk  behind  Mr.  Mulrady's  chair,  as  his  confi 
dential  clerk  and  private  secretary.  The  astonishment 
of  Red  Dog  and  Rough-and-Ready  at  this  singular  inno 
vation  knew  no  bounds ;  but  the  boldness  and  novelty 
of  the  idea  carried  everything  before  it.  Judge  Butts, 
the  oracle  of  Rough-and-Ready,  delivered  its  decision : 
"He's  got  a  man  who's  physically  incapable  of  running 
off  with  his  money,  and  has  no  memory  to  run  off  with 
his  ideas.  How  could  he  do  better?"  Even  his  own  son, 
Harry,  coming  upon  his  father  thus  installed,  was  for  a 
moment  struck  with  a  certain  filial  respect,  and  for  a 
day  or  two  patronized  him. 

In  this  capacity  Slinn  became  the  confidant  not  only 
of  Mulrady's  business  secrets,  but  of  his  domestic  af 
fairs.  He  knew  that  young  Mulrady,  from  a  freckle- 
faced  slow  country  boy,  had  developed  into  a  freckle- 
faced  fast  city  man,  with  coarse  habits  of  drink  and 
gambling.  It  was  through  the  old  man's  hands  that  ex 
travagant  bills  and  shameful  claims  passed  on  their  way 
to  be  cashed  by  Mulrady ;  it  was  he  that  at  last  laid 
before  the  father  one  day  his  signature  perfectly  forged 
by  the  son. 

"Your  eyes  are  not  ez  good  ez  mine,  you  know,  Slinn," 
said  Mulrady,  gravely.  "It's  all  right.  I  sometimes 
make  my  y's  like  that.  I'd  clean  forgot  to  cash  that 
check.  You  must  not  think  you've  got  the  monopoly  of 
disremembering,"  he  added,  with  a  faint  laugh. 


52          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

Equally  through  Slinn's  hands  passed  the  record  of  the 
lavish  expenditure  of  Mrs.  Mulrady  and  the  fair  Mamie, 
as  well  as  the  chronicle  of  their  movements  and  fashion 
able  triumphs.  As  Mulrady  had  already  noticed  that 
Slinn  had  no  confidence  with  his  own  family,  he  did  not 
try  to  withhold  from  them  these  domestic  details,  pos 
sibly  as  an  offset  to  the  dreary  catalogue  of  his  son's 
misdeeds,  but  more  often  in  the  hope  of  gaining  from 
the  taciturn  old  man  some  comment  that  might  satisfy 
his  innocent  vanity  as  father  and  husband,  and  perhaps 
dissipate  some  doubts  that  were  haunting  him. 

"Twelve  hundred  dollars  looks  to  be  a  good  figger  for 
a  dress,  ain't  it?  But  Malviny  knows,  I  reckon,  what 
ought  to  be  worn  at  the  Tooilleries,  and  she  don't  want 
our  Mamie  to  take  a  back  seat  before  them  furrin'  prin 
cesses  and  gran'  dukes.  It's  a  slap-up  affair,  I  kalkilate. 
Let's  see.  I  disremember  whether  it's  an  emperor  or  a 
king  that's  rulin'  over  thar  now.  It  must  be  suthin' 
first  class  and  A  I,  for  Malviny  ain't  the  woman  to  throw 
away  twelve  hundred  dollars  on  any  of  them  small- 
potato  despots !  She  says  Mamie  speaks  French  already 
like  them  French  Petes.  I  don't  quite  make  out  what  she 
means  here.  She  met  Don  Caesar  in  Paris,  and  she  says, 
'I  think  Mamie  is  nearly  off  with  Don  Caesar,  who  has 
followed  her  here.  I  don't  care  about  her  dropping 
him  too  suddenly;  the  reason  I'll  tell  you  hereafter.  I 
think  the  man  might  be  a  dangerous  enemy.'  Now, 
what  do  you  make  of  this?  I  allus  thought  Mamie 
rather  cottoned  to  him,  and  it  was  the  old  woman  who 
fought  shy,  thinkin'  Mamie  would  do  better.  Now,  I 
am  agreeable  that  my  gal  should  marry  any  one  she  likes, 
whether  it's  a  dock  or  a  poor  man,  as  long  as  he's  on  the 
square.  I  was  ready  to  take  Don  Caesar;  but  now  things 
seem  to  have  shifted  round.  As  to  Don  Caesar's  being 
a  dangerous  enemy  if  Mamie  won't  have  him,  that's  a 
little  too  high  and  mighty  for  me,  and  I  wonder  the  old 
woman  don't  make  him  climb  down.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"Who  is  Don  Caesar?"  asked  Slinn. 

"The  man  what  picked  you  up  that  day.     I  mean," 


A    MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          53 

continued  Mulrady,  seeing  the  marks  of  evident  igno 
rance  on  the  old  man's  face, — "I  mean  a  sort  of  grave, 
genteel  chap,  suthin'  between  a  parson  and  a  circus- 
rider.  You  might  have  seen  him  round  the  house  talkin' 
to  your  gals." 

But  Slinn's  entire  forgetfulness  of  Don  Caesar  was 
evidently  unfeigned.  Whatever  sudden  accession  of 
memory  he  had  at  the  time  of  his  attack,  the  incident 
that  caused  it  had  no  part  in  his  recollection.  With  the 
exception  of  these  rare  intervals  of  domestic  confidences 
with  his  crippled  private  secretary,  Mulrady  gave  him 
self  up  to  money-getting.  Without  any  especial  faculty 
for  it — an  easy  prey  often  to  unscrupulous  financiers — 
his  unfailing  luck,  however,  carried  him  safely  through, 
until  his  very  mistakes  seemed  to  be  simply  insignificant 
means  to  a  large  significant  end  and  a  part  of  his  original 
plan.  He  sank  another  shaft,  at  a  great  expense,  with  a 
view  to  following  the  lead  he  had  formerly  found, 
against  the  opinions  of  the  best  mining  engineers,  and 
struck  the  artesian  spring  he  did  not  find  at  that  time, 
with  a  volume  of  water  that  enabled  him  not  only  to 
work  his  own  mine,  but  to  furnish  supplies  to  his  less 
fortunate  neighbors  at  a  vast  profit.  A  league  of  tan 
gled  forest  and  canon  behind  Rough-and-Ready,  for 
which  he  had  paid  Don  Ramon's  heirs  an  extravagant 
price  in  the  presumption  that  it  was  auriferous,  furnished 
the  most  accessible  timber  to  build  the  town,  at  prices 
which  amply  remunerated  him.  The  practical  schemes 
of  experienced  men,  the  wildest  visions  of  daring  dreams 
delayed  or  abortive  for  want  of  capital,  eventually  fell 
into  his  hands.  Men  sneered  at  his  methods,  but  bought 
his  shares.  Some  who  affected  to  regard  him  simply 
as  a  man  of  money  were  content  to  get  only  his  name 
to  any  enterprise.  Courted  by  his  superiors,  quoted  by 
his  equals,  and  admired  by  his  inferiors,  he  bore  his 
elevation  equally  without  ostentation  or  dignity.  Bidden 
to  banquets,  and  forced  by  his  position  as  director  or 
president  into  the  usual  gastronomic  feats  of  that  civil 
ization  and  period,  he  partook  of  simple  food,  and  con 
tinued  his  old  habit  of  taking  a  cup  of  coffee  with  milk 


54          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

and  sugar  at  dinner.  Without  professing  temperance, 
he  drank  sparingly  in  a  community  where  alcoholic 
stimulation  was  a  custom.  With  neither  refinement  nor 
an  extended  vocabulary,  he  was  seldom  profane,  and 
never  indelicate.  With  nothing  of  the  Puritan  in  his 
manner  or  conversation,  he  seemed  to  be  as  strange  to  the 
vices  of  civilization  as  he  was  to  its  virtues.  That  such 
a  man  should  offer  little  to  and  receive  little  from  the 
companionship  of  women  of  any  kind  was  a  foregone 
conclusion.  Without  the  dignity  of  solitude,  he  was 
pathetically  alone. 

Meantime,  the  days  passed;  the  first  six  months  of 
his  opulence  were  drawing  to  a  close,  and  in  that  interval 
he  had  more  than  doubled  the  amount  of  his  discovered 
fortune.  The  rainy  season  set  hi  early.  Although  it 
dissipated  the  clouds  of  dust  under  which  Nature  and 
Art  seemed  to  be  slowly  disappearing,  it  brought  little 
beauty  to  the  landscape  at  first,  and  only  appeared  to 
lay  bare  the  crudeaesses  of  civilization.  The  unpainted 
wooden  buildings  of  Rough-and-Ready,  soaked  and  drip 
ping  with  rain,  took  upon  themselves  a  sleek  and  shining 
ugliness,  as  of  second-hand  garments ;  the  absence  of 
cornices  or  projections  to  break  the  monotony  of  the 
long  straight  lines  of  downpour  made  the  town  appear 
as  if  it  had  been  recently  submerged,  every  vestige  of 
ornamentation  swept  away,  and  only  the  bare  outlines  left. 
Mud  was  everywhere ;  the  outer  soil  seemed  to  have  risen 
and  invaded  the  houses  even  to  their  most  secret  re 
cesses,  as  if  outraged  Nature  was  trying  to  revenge 
herself.  Mud  was  brought  into  the  saloons  and  bar 
rooms  and  express  offices,  on  boots,  on  clothes,  on  bag 
gage,  and  sometimes  appeared  mysteriously  in  splashes 
of  red  color  on  the  walls,  without  visible  conveyance. 
The  dust  of  six  months,  closely  packed  in  cornice  and 
carving,  yielded  under  the  steady  rain  a  thin  yellow 
paint,  that  dropped  on  wayfarers  or  unexpectedly  oozed 
out  of  ceilings  and  walls  on  the  wretched  inhabitants 
within.  The  outskirts  of  Rough-and-Ready  and  the  dried 
hills  round  Los  Gatos  did  not  appear  to  fare  much  bet 
ter;  the  new  vegetation  had  not  yet  made  much  head- 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          55 

way  against  the  dead  grasses  of  the  summer;  the  pines 
in  the  hollow  wept  lugubriously  into  a  small  rivulet  that 
had  sprung  suddenly  into  life  near  the  old  trail;  every 
where  was  the  sound  of  dropping,  splashing,  gurgling, 
or  rushing  waters. 

More  hideous  than  ever,  the  new  Mulrady  house  lifted 
itself  against  the  leaden  sky,  and  stared  with  all  its 
large-framed,  shutterless  windows  blankly  on  the  pros 
pect,  until  they  seemed  to  the  wayfarer  to  become  mere 
mirrors  set  in  the  walls,  reflecting  only  the  watery  land 
scape,  and  unable  to  give  the  least  indication  of  light 
or  heat  within.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  fire  in  Mul- 
rady's  private  office  that  December  afternoon,  of  a 
smoky,  intermittent  variety,  that  sufficed  more  to  record 
the  defects  of  hasty  architecture  than  to  comfort  the 
millionaire  and  his  private  secretary,  who  had  lingered 
after  the  early  withdrawal  of  the  clerks.  For  the  next 
day  was  Christinas,  and,  out  of  deference  to  the  near 
approach  of  this  festivity,  a  half-holiday  had  been  given 
to  the  employes.  "They'll  want,  some  of  them,  to  spend 
their  money  before  to-morrow ;  and  others  would  like  to 
be  able  to  rise  up  comfortably  drunk  Christmas  morn 
ing,"  the  superintendent  had  suggested.  Mr.  Mulrady  had 
just  signed  a  number  of  checks  indicating  his  largess  to 
those  devoted  adherents  with  the  same  unostentatious, 
undemonstrative,  matter-of-fact  manner  that  distin 
guished  his  ordinary  business.  The  men  had  received 
it  with  something  of  the  same  manner.  A  half-humor 
ous  "Thank  you,  sir" — as  if  to  show  that,  with  their  pa 
tron,  they  tolerated  this  deference  to  a  popular  cus 
tom,  but  were  a  little  ashamed  of  giving  way  to  it — ex 
pressed  their  gratitude  and  their  independence. 

"I  reckon  that  the  old  lady  and  Mamie  are  having  a 
high  old  time  in  some  of  them  gilded  pallises  in  St. 
Petersburg  or  Berlin  about  this  time.  Them  diamonds 
that  I  ordered  at  Tiffany  ought  to  have  reached  'em 
about  now,  so  that  Mamie  could  cut  a  swell  at  Christ 
mas  with  her  war-paint.  I  suppose  it's  the  style  to  give 
presents  in  furrin'  countries  ez  it  is  here,  and  I  allowed 
to  the  old  lady  that  whatever  she  orders  in  that  way  she 


56          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

is  to  do  in  Calif orny  style — no  dollar-jewelry  and  gal- 
vanized-watches  business.  If  she  wants  to  make  a 
present  to  any  of  them  nobles  ez  has  been  purlite  to  her, 
it's  got  to  be  something  that  Rough-and-Ready  ain't 
ashamed  of.  I  showed  you  that  pin  Mamie  bought  me 
in  Paris,  didn't  I?  It's  just  come  for  my  Christmas 
present.  No !  I  reckon  I  put  it  in  the  safe,  for  them 
kind  o'  things  don't  suit  my  style:  but  s'pose  I  orter 
sport  it  to-morrow.  It  was  mighty  thoughtful  in  Mamie, 
and  it  must  cost  a  lump;  it's  got  no  slouch  of  a  pearl 
in  it.  I  wonder  what  Mamie  gave  for  it?" 

"You  can  easily  tell;  the  bill  is  here.  You  paid  it  yes 
terday,"  said  Slinn.  There  was  no  satire  in  the  man's 
voice,  nor  was  there  the  least  perception  of  irony  in  Mul- 
rady's  manner,  as  he  returned  quietly, — 

"That's  so;  it  was  suthin'  like  a  thousand  francs;  but 
French  money,  when  you  pan  it  out  as  dollars  and  cents, 
don't  make  so  much,  after  all."  There  was  a  few  mo 
ments'  silence,  when  he  continued,  in  the  same  tone  of 
voice,  "Talkin'  o'  them  things,  Slinn,  I've  got  suthin' 
for  you."  He  stopped  suddenly.  Ever  watchful  of  any 
undue  excitement  in  the  invalid,  he  had  noticed  a  slight 
flush  of  disturbance  pass  over  his  face,  and  continued 
carelessly,  "But  we'll  talk  it  over  to-morrow;  a  day  or 
two  don't  make  much  difference  to  you  and  me  in  such 
things,  you  know.  P'raps  I'll  drop  in  and  see  you.  We'll 
be  shut  up  here." 

"Then  you're  going  out  somewhere?"  asked  Slinn,  me 
chanically. 

"No,"  said  Mulrady,  hesitatingly.  It  had  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  he  had  nowhere  to  go  if  he  wanted 
to,  and  he  continued,  half  in  explanation,  "I  ain't  reck 
oned  much  on  Christmas,  myself.  Abner's  at  the 
Springs ;  it  wouldn't  pay  him  to  come  here  for  a  day — 
even  if  there  was  anybody  here  he  cared  to  see.  I 
reckon  I'll  hang  round  the  shanty,  and  look  after  things 
generally.  I  haven't  been  over  the  house  upstairs  to  put 
things  to  rights  since  the  folks  left.  But  you  needn't 
come  here,  you  know." 

He  helped  the  old  man  to  rise,  assisted  him  in  put- 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          57 

ting  on  his  overcoat,  and  than  handed  him  the  cane 
which  had  lately  replaced  his  crutches. 

"Good-by,  old  man !  You  musn't  trouble  yourself  to 
say  'Merry  Christmas'  now,  but  wait  until  you  see  me 
again.  Take  care  of  yourself." 

He  slapped  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  and  went  back 
into  his  private  office.  He  worked  for  some  time  at  his 
desk,  and  then  laid  his  pen  aside,  put  away  his  papers 
methodically,  placing  a  large  envelope  on  his  private 
secretary's  vacant  table.  He  then  opened  the  office  door 
and  ascended  the  staircase.  He  stopped  on  the  first  land 
ing  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  rain  on  the  glass  skylight, 
that  seemed  to  echo  through  the  empty  hall  like  the 
gloomy  roll  of  a  drum.  It  was  evident  that  the  searching 
water  had  found  out  the  secret  sins  of  the  house's  con 
struction,  for  there  were  great  fissures  of  discoloration 
in  the  white  and  gold  paper  in  the  corners  of  the  wall. 
There  was  a  strange  odor  of  the  dank  forest  in  the  mir 
rored  drawing-room,  as  if  the  rain  had  brought  out  the 
sap  again  from  the  unseasoned  timbers ;  the  blue  and 
white  satin  furniture  looked  cold,  and  the  marble  man 
tels  and  centre  tables  had  taken  upon  themselves  the 
clamminess  of  tombstones.  Mr.  Mulrady,  who  had  al 
ways  retained  his  old  farmer-like  habit  of  taking  off  his 
coat  with  his  hat  on  entering  his  own  house,  and  appear 
ing  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  to  indicate  domestic  ease  and 
security,  was  obliged  to  replace  it,  on  account  of  the 
chill.  He  had  never  felt  at  home  in  this  room.  Its 
strangeness  had  lately  been  heightened  by  Mrs.  Mul- 
rady's  purchase  of  a  family  portrait  of  some  one  she 
didn't  know,  but  who,  she  had  alleged,  resembled  her 
"Uncle  Bob,"  which  hung  on  the  wall  beside  some  paint 
ings  in  massive  frames.  .  Mr.  Mulrady  cast  a  hurried 
glance  at  the  portrait  that,  on  the  strength  of  a  high 
coat-collar  and  high  top  curl — both  rolled  with  equal 
precision  and  singular  sameness  of  color — had  always 
glared  at  Mulrady  as  if  he  was  the  intruder;  and,  pass 
ing  through  his  wife's  gorgeous  bedroom,  entered  the 
little  dressing-room,  where  he  still  slept  on  the  smallest 
of  cots,  with  hastily  improvised  surroundings,  as  if  he 


58          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

was  a  bailiff  in  "possession."  He  didn't  linger  here  long, 
but,  taking  a  key  from  a  drawer,  continued  up  the 
staircase,  to  the  ominous  funeral  marches  of  the  beating 
rain  on  the  skylight,  and  paused  on  the  landing  to  glance 
into  his  son's  and  daughter's  bedrooms,  duplicates  of  the 
bizarre  extravagance  below.  If  he  were  seeking  some 
characteristic  traces  of  his  absent  family,  they  certainly 
were  not  here  in  the  painted  and  still  damp  blazoning 
of  their  later  successes.  He  ascended  another  staircase, 
and,  passing  to  the  wing  of  the  fTbuse,  paused  before 
a  small  door,  which  was  locked.  Already  the  ostenta 
tious  decorations  of  wall  and  passages  were  left  behind, 
and  the  plain  lath-and-plaster  partition  of  the  attic  lay 
before  him.  He  unlocked  the  door,  and  threw  it  open. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  apartment  he  entered  was  really  only  a  lumber- 
room  or  loft  over  the  wing  of  the  house,  which  had  been 
left  bare  and  unfinished,  and  which  revealed  in  its  meagre 
skeleton  of  beams  and  joints  the  hollow  sham  of  the  whole 
structure.  But  in  more  violent  contrast  to  the  fresher 
glories  of  the  other  part  of  the  house  were  its  contents, 
which  were  the  heterogeneous  collection  of  old  furniture, 
old  luggage,  and  cast-off  clothing,  left  over  from  the  past 
life  in  the  old  cabin.  It  was  a  much  plainer  record  of  the 
simple  beginnings  of  the  family  than  Mrs.  Mulrady  cared 
to  have  remain  in  evidence,  and  for  that  reason  it  had 
been  relegated  to  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  new  house, 
in  the  hope  that  it  might  absorb  or  digest  it.  There  were 
old  cribs,  in  which  the  infant  limbs  of  Mamie  and  Abner 
had  been  tucked  up ;  old  looking-glasses,  that  had  reflected 
their  shining,  soapy  faces,  and  Mamie's  best  chip  Sunday 
hat;  an  old  sewing-machine,  that  had  been  worn  out  in 
active  service ;  old  patchwork  quilts ;  an  old  accordion,  to 
whose  long  drawn  inspirations  Mamie  had  sung  hymns ; 
old  pictures,  books,  and  old  toys.  There  were  one  or  two 
old  chromos,  and,  stuck  in  an  old  frame,  a  colored  print 
from  the  "Illustrated  London  News"  of  a  Christinas  gath- 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          59 

ering  in  an  old  English  country  house.  He  stopped  and 
picked  up  this  print,  which  he  had  often  seen  before,  gaz 
ing  at  it  with  a  new  and  singular  interest.  He  wondered 
if  Mamie  had  seen  anything  of  this  kind  in  England,  and 
why  couldn't  he  have  had  something  like  it  here,  in  their 
own  fine  house,  with  themselves  and  a  few  friends  ?  He 
remembered  a  past  Christmas,  when  he  had  bought  Mamie 
that  now  headless  doll  with  the  few  coins  that  were  left 
him  after  buying  their  frugal  Christmas  dinner.  There 
was  an  old  spotted  hobby-horse  that  another  Christmas 
had  brought  to  Abner — Abner,  who  would  be  driving  a 
fast  trotter  to-morrow  at  the  Springs !  How  everything 
had  changed !  How  they  all  had  got  up  in  the  world,  and 
how  far  beyond  this  kind  of  thing — and  yet — yet  it  would 
have  been  rather  comfortable  to  have  all  been  together 
again  here.  Would  they  have  been  more  comfortable? 
No !  Yet  then  he  might  have  had  something  to  do,  and 
been  less  lonely  to-morrow.  What  of  that?  He  had 
something  to  do :  to  look  after  this  immense  fortune. 
What  more  could  a  man  want,  or  should  he  want?  It 
was  rather  mean  in  him,  able  to  give  his  wife  and  chil 
dren  everything  they  wanted,  to  be  wanting  anything 
more.  He  laid  down  the  print  gently,  after  dusting  its 
glass  and  frame  with  his  silk  handkerchief,  and  slowly 
left  the  room. 

The  drum-beat  of  the  rain  followed  him  down  the  stair 
case,  but  he  shut  it  out  with  his  other  thoughts,  when  he 
again  closed  the  door  of  his  office.  He  set  diligently  to 
work  by  the  declining  winter  light,  until  he  was  inter 
rupted  by  the  entrance  of  his  Chinese  waiter  to  tell  him 
that  supper — which  was  the  meal  that  Mulrady  religiously 
adhered  to  in  place  of  the  late  dinner  of  civilization — 
was  ready  in  the  dining-room.  Mulrady  mechanically 
obeyed  the  summons ;  but  on  entering  the  room  the  oasis 
of  a  few  plates  in  a  desert  of  white  table-cloth  which 
awaited  him  made  him  hesitate.  In  its  best  aspect,  the 
high  dark  Gothic  mahogany  ecclesiastical  sideboard  and 
chairs  of  this  room,  which  looked  like  the  appointments 
of  a  mortuary  chapel,  were  not  exhilarating;  and  to-day, 
in  the  light  of  the  rain-filmed  windows  and  the  feeble  rays 


60          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

of  a  lamp  half-obscured  by  the  dark  shining  walls,  it  was 
most  depressing. 

"You  kin  take  up  supper  into  my  office,"  said  Mulrady, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration.  "I'll  eat  it  there." 

He  ate  it  there,  with  his  usual  healthy  appetite,  which 
did  not  require  even  the  stimulation  of  company.  He  had 
just  finished,  when  his  Irish  cook — the  one  female  servant 
of  the  house — came  to  ask  permission  to  be  absent  that 
evening  and  the  next  day. 

"I  suppose  the  likes  of  your  honor  won't  be  at  home 
on  the  Christmas  Day?  And  it's  me  cousins  from  the  old 
counthry  at  Rough-and-Ready  that  are  invitin'  me." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  them  over  here?"  said  Mulrady, 
with  another  vague  inspiration.  "I'll  stand  treat." 

"Lord  preserve  you  for  a  jinerous  gintleman !  But  it's 
the  likes  of  them  and  myself  that  wouldn't  be  at  home 
here  on  such  a  day." 

There  was  so  much  truth  in  this  that  Mulrady  checked 
a  sigh  as  he  gave  the  required  permission,  without  say 
ing  that  he  had  intended  to  remain.  He  could  cook  his 
own  breakfast:  he  had  done  it  before;  and  it  would  be 
something  to  occupy  him.  As  to  his  dinner,  perhaps  he 
could  go  to  the  hotel  at  Rough-and-Ready.  He  worked 
on  until  the  night  had  well  advanced.  Then,  overcome 
with  a  certain  restlessness  that  disturbed  him,  he  was 
forced  to  put  his  books  and  papers  away.  It  had  begun 
to  blow  in  fitful  gusts,  and  occasionally  the  rain  was 
driven  softly  across  the  panes  like  the  passing  of  childish 
fingers.  This  disturbed  him  more  than  the  monotony  of 
silence,  for  he  was  not  a  nervous  man.  He  seldom  read 
a  book,  and  the  county  paper  furnished  him  only  the  finan 
cial  and  mercantile  news  which  was  part  of  his  business. 
He  knew  he  could  not  sleep  if  he  went  to  bed.  At  last 
he  rose,  opened  the  window,  and  looked  out  from  pure 
idleness  of  occupation.  A  splash  of  wheels  in  the  distant 
muddy  road  and  fragments  of  a  drunken  song  showed 
signs  of  an  early  wandering  reveller.  There  were  no 
lights  to  be  seen  at  the  closed  works ;  a  profound  darkness 
encompassed  the  house,  as  if  the  distant  pines  in  the  hol 
low  had  moved  up  and  round  it.  The  silence  was  broken 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          61 

now  only  by  the  occasional  sighing  of  wind  and  rain.  It 
was  not  an  inviting  night  for  a  perfunctory  walk;  but 
an  idea  struck  him — he  would  call  upon  the  Slinns,  and 
anticipate  his  next  day's  visit !  They  would  probably  have 
company,  and  be  glad  to  see  him:  he  could  tell  the  girls 
of  Mamie  and  her  success.  That  he  had  not  thought  of 
this  before  was  a  proof  of  his  usual  self-contained  iso 
lation,  that  he  thought  of  it  now  was  an  equal  proof  that 
he  was  becoming  at  last  accessible  to  loneliness.  He  was 
angry  with  himself  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  selfish 
weakness. 

He  returned  to  his  office,  and,  putting  the  envelope  that 
had  been  lying  on  Slinn's  desk  in  his  pocket,  threw  a 
scrape  over  his  shoulders,  and  locked  the  front  door  of 
the  house  behind  him.  It  was  well  that  the  way  was  a 
familiar  one  to  him,  and  that  his  feet  instinctively  found 
•the  trail,  for  the  night  was  very  dark.  At  times  he  was 
warned  only  by  the  gurgling  of  water  of  little  rivulets 
that  descended  the  hill  and  crossed  his  path.  Without  the 
slightest  fear,  and  with  neither  imagination  nor  sensitive 
ness,  he  recalled  how,  the  winter  before,  one  of  Don 
Caesar's  vaqueros,  crossing  this  hill  at  night,  had  fallen 
down  the  chasm  of  a  landslip  caused  by  the  rain,  and  was 
found  the  next  morning  with  his  neck  broken  in  the 
gully.  Don  Caesar  had  to  take  care  of  the  man's  family. 
Suppose  such  an  accident  should  happen  to  him?  Well, 
he  had  made  his  will.  His  wife  and  children  would  be 
provided  for,  and  the  work  of  the  mine  would  go  on  all 
the  same ;  he  had  arranged  for  that.  Would  anybody  miss 
him?  Would  his  wife,  or  his  son,  or  his  daughter?  No. 
He  felt  such  a  sudden  and  overwhelming  conviction  of 
the  truth  of  this  that  he  stopped  as  suddenly  as  if  the 
chasm  had  opened  before  him.  No!  It  was  the  truth. 
If  he  were  to  disappear  forever  in  the  darkness  of  the 
Christmas  night  there  was  none  to  feel  his  loss.  His 
wife  would  take  care  of  Mamie;  his  son  would  take  care 
tf  himself,  as  he  had  before — relieved  of  even  the  scant 
paternal  authority  he  rebelled  against.  A  more  imagina 
tive  man  than  Mulrady  would  have  combated  or  have  fol 
lowed  out  this  idea,  and  then  dismissed  it;  to  the  million- 


62          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

aire's  matter-of-fact  mind  it  was  a  deduction  that,  having 
once  presented  itself  to  his  perception,  was  already  a  rec 
ognized  fact.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  a 
sudden  instinct  of  something  like  aversion  towards  his 
family,  a  feeling  that  even  his  son's  dissipation  and  crimi 
nality  had  never  provoked.  He  hurried  on  angrily 
through  the  darkness. 

It  was  very  strange ;  the  old  house  should  be  almost 
before  him  now,  across  the  hollow,  yet  there  were  no 
indications  of  light!  It  was  not  until  he  actually  reached 
the  garden  fence,  and  the  black  bulk  of  shadow  rose  out 
against  the  sky,  that  he  saw  a  faint  ray  of  light  from 
one  of  the  lean-to  windows.  He  went  to  the  front  door 
and  knocked.  After  waiting  in  vain  for  a  reply,  he 
knocked  again.  The  second  knock  proving  equally  futile, 
he  tried  the  door ;  it  was  unlocked,  and,  pushing  it  open, 
he  walked  in.  The  narrow  passage  was  quite  dark,  but 
from  his  knowledge  of  the  house  he  knew  the  "lean-to" 
was  next  to  the  kitchen,  and,  passing  through  the  din 
ing-room  into  it,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  little  room 
from  which  the  light  proceeded.  It  came  from  a  single 
candle  on  a  small  table,  and  beside  it,  with  his  eyes  mood 
ily  fixed  on  the  dying  embers  of  the  fire,  sat  old  Slinn. 
There  was  no  other  light  nor  another  human  being  in  the 
whole  house. 

For  the  instant  Mulrady,  forgetting  his  own  feelings 
in  the  mute  picture  of  the  utter  desolation  of  the  help 
less  man,  remained  speechless  on  the  threshold.  Then, 
recalling  himself,  he  stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand 
gayly  on  the  bowed  shoulders. 

"Rouse  up  out  o'  this,  old  man !  Come !  this  won't  do. 
Look!  I've  run  over  here  in  the  rain,  jist  to  have  a  so 
ciable  time  with  you  all." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  the  old  man,  without  looking  up;  "I 
knew  you'd  come." 

"You  knew  I'd  come?"  echoed  Mulrady,  with  an  un 
easy  return  of  the  strange  feeling  of  awe  with  which  he 
regarded  Slinn's  abstraction. 

"Yes ;  you  were  alone — like  myself — all  alone  !" 

"Then,   why  in  thunder  didn't  you  open  the  door  or 


A  MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY         63 

sing  out  just  now?"  he  said,  with  an  affected  brusqucric 
to  cover  his  uneasiness.  "Where's  your  daughters?" 

"Gone  to  Rough-and-Ready  to  a  party." 

"And  your  son?" 

"He  never  comes  here  when  he  can  amuse  himself 
elsewhere." 

"Your  children  might  have  stayed  home  on  Christmas 
Eve." 

"So  might  yours." 

He  didn't  say  this  impatiently,  but  with  a  certain  ab 
stracted  conviction  far  beyond  any  suggestion  of  its  being 
a  retort.  Mulrady  did  not  appear  to  notice  it. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why  us  old  folks  can't  enjoy  our 
selves  without  them,"  said  Mulrady,  with  affected  cheer 
fulness.  "Let's  have  a  good  time,  you  and  me.  Let's  see 
— you  haven't  any  one  you  can  send  to  my  house,  hev 
you?" 

"They  took  the  servant  with  them,"  said  Slinn,  briefly. 
"There  is  no  one  here." 

"All  right,"  said  the  millionaire,  briskly.  "I'll  go 
myself.  Do  you  think  you  can  manage  to  light  up 
a  little  more,  and  build  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  while 
I'm  gone?  It  used  to  be  mighty  comfortable  in  the  old 
times." 

He  helped  the  old  man  to  rise  from  his  chair,  and 
seemed  to  have  infused  into  him  some  of  his  own  energy. 
He  then  added,  "Now,  don't  you  get  yourself  down  again 
into  that  chair  until  I  come  back,"  and  darted  out  into 
the  night  once  more. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  returned  with  a  bag  on  his 
broad  shoulders,  which  one  of  his  porters  would  have 
shrunk  from  lifting,  and  laid  it  before  the  blazing  hearth 
of  the  now  lighted  kitchen.  "It's  something  the  old 
woman  got  for  her  party,  that  didn't  come  off,"  he  said, 
apologetically.  "I  reckon  we  can  pick  out  enough  for  a 
spread.  That  darned  Chinaman  wouldn't  come  with  me," 
he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "because,  he  said,  he'd  knocked 
off  work  'allee  same,  Mellican  man !'  Look  here,  Slinn," 
he  said,  with  a  sudden  decisiveness,  "my  pay-roll  of  the 
men  around  here  don't  run  short  ef  a  hundred  and  fifty 


64          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

dollars  a  day,  and  yet  I  couldn't  get  a  hand  to  help  me 
bring  this  truck  over  for  my  Christmas  dinner." 

"Of  course,"  said  Slinn,  gloomily. 

"Of  course ;  so  it  oughter  be,"  returned  Mulrady, 
shortly.  "Why,  it's  only  their  one  day  out  of  364;  and 
I  can  have  363  days  off,  as  I  am  their  boss.  I  don't  mind 
a  man's  being  independent,"  he  continued,  taking  off  his 
coat  and  beginning  to  unpack  his  sack — a  common  "gunny 
bag" — used  for  potatoes.  "We're  independent  ourselves, 
ain't  we,  Slinn?" 

His  good  spirits,  which  had  been  at  first  labored  and 
affected,  had  become  natural.  Slinn,  looking  at  his  bright 
ened  eye  and  fresher  color,  could  not  help  thinking  he 
was  more  like  his  own  real  self  at  this  moment  than  in 
his  counting-house  and  offices — with  all  his  simplicity  as 
a  capitalist.  A  less  abstracted  and  more  observant  critic 
than  Slinn  would  have  seen  in  this  patient  aptitude  for 
real  work,  and  the  recognition  of  the  force  of  petty  detail, 
the  dominance  of  the  old  market-gardener  in  his  former 
humble,  as  well  as  his  later  more  ambitious,  successes. 

"Heaven  keep  us  from  being  dependent  upon  our  chil 
dren  !"  said  Slinn,  darkly. 

"Let  the  young  ones  alone  to-night;  we  can  get  along 
without  them,  as  they  can  without  us,"  said  Mulrady,  with 
a  slight  twinge  as  he  thought  of  his  reflections  on  the 
hillside.  "But  look  here,  there's  some  champagne  and 
them  sweet  cordials  that  women  like ;  there's  jellies  and 
such  like  stuff,  about  as  good  as  they  make  'em,  I  reckon; 
and  preserves,  and  tongues,  and  spiced  beef — take  your 
pick !  Stop,  let's  spread  them  out."  Hie  dragged  the 
table  to  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  piled  the  provisions 
upon  it.  They  certainly  were  not  deficient  in  quality  or 
quantity.  "Now,  Slinn,  wade  in." 

"I  don't  feel  hungry,"  said  the  invalid,  who  had  lapsed 
again  into  a  chair  before  the  fire. 

"No  more  do  I,"  said  Mulrady;  "but  I  reckon  it's  the 
right  thing  to  do  about  this  time.  Some  folks  think  they 
can't  be  happy  without  they're  getting  outside  o'  suthin', 
and  my  directors  down  at  'Frisco  can't  do  any  business 
without  a  dinner.  Take  some  champagne,  to  begin  with." 


A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY         65 

He  opened  a  bottle,  and  filled  two  tumblers.  "It's  past 
twelve  o'clock,  old  man,  so  here's  a  merry  Christmas  to 
you,  and  both  of  us  ez  is  here.  And  here's  another  to 
our  families — ez  isn't." 

They  both  drank  their  wine  stolidly.  The  rain  beat 
against  the  windows  sharply,  but  without  the  hollow 
echoes  of  the  house  on  the  hill.  "I  must  write  to  the 
old  woman  and  Mamie,  and  say  that  you  and  me  had  a 
high  old  time  on  Christmas  Eve." 

"By  ourselves,"  added  the  invalid. 

Mr.  Mulrady  coughed.  "Nat'rally — by  ourselves.  And 
her  provisions,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh.  "We're  really 
beholden  to  her  for  'em.  If  she  hadn't  thought  of  having 
them — " 

"For  somebody  else,  you  wouldn't  have  had  them — 
would  you?"  said  Slinn,  slowly,  gazing  at  the  fire. 

"No,"  said  Mulrady,  dubiously.  After  a  pause  he  began 
more  vivaciously,  and  as  if  to  shake  off  some  disagree 
able  thought  that  was  impressing  him,  "But  I  mustn't  for 
get  to  give  you  your  Christmas,  old  man,  and  I've  got  it 
right  here  with  me."  He  took  the  folded  envelope  from 
his  pocket,  and,  holding  it  in  his  hand  with  his  elbow 
on  the  table,  continued,  "I  don't  mind  telling  you  what 
idea  I  had  in  giving  you  what  I'm  goin'  to  give  you  now. 
I've  been  thinking  about  it  for  a  day  or  two.  A  man  like 
you  don't  want  money — you  wouldn't  spend  it.  A  man 
like  you  don't  want  stocks  or  fancy  investments,  for  you 
couldn't  look  after  them.  A  man  like  you  don't  want  dia 
monds  and  jewellery,  nor  a  gold-headed  cane,  when  it's 
got  to  be  used  as  a  crutch.  No,  sir.  What  you  want  is 
suthin'  that  won't  run  away  from  you ;  that  is  always  there 
before  you  and  won't  wear  out,  and  will  last  after  you're 
gone.  That's  land !  And  if  it  wasn't  that  I  have  sworn 
never  to  sell  or  give  away  this  house  and  that  garden,  if 
it  wasn't  that  I've  held  out  agin  the  old  woman  and  Mamie 
on  that  point,  you  should  have  this  house  and  that  garden. 
But,  mebbee,  for  the  same  reason  that  I've  told  you,  I 
want  that  land  to  keep  for  myself.  But  I've  selected  four 
acres  of  the  hill  this  side  of  my  shaft,  and  here's  the  deed 
of  it.  As  soon  as  you're  ready,  I'll  put  you  up  a  house 

3  V.  2 


66          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

as  big  as  this — that  shall  be  yours,  with  the  land,  as  long 
as  you  live,  old  man ;  and  after  that  your  children's." 

"No ;  not  theirs  I"  broke  in  the  old  man,  passionately. 
"Never !" 

Mulrady  recoiled  for  an  instant  in  alarm  at  the  sudden 
and  unexpected  vehemence  of  his  manner.  "Go  slow,  old 
man ;  go  slow,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "Of  course,  you'll 
do  with  your  own  as  you  like."  Then,  as  if  changing 
the  subject,  he  went  on  cheerfully:  "Perhaps  you'll  won 
der  why  I  picked  out  that  spot  on  the  hillside.  Well, 
first,  because  I  reserved  it  after  my  strike  in  case  the  lead 
should  run  that  way,  but  it  didn't.  Next,  because  when 
you  first  came  here  you  seemed  to  like  the  prospect.  You 
used  to  sit  there  looking  at  it,  as  if  it  reminded  you  of 
something.  You  never  said  it  did.  They  say  you  was 
sitting  on  that  boulder  there  when  you  had  that  last 
attack,  you  know;  but,"  he  added,  gently,  "you've  for 
gotten  all  about  it." 

"I  have  forgotten  nothing,"  said  Slinn,  rising,  with  a 
choking  voice.  "I  wish  to  God  I  had;  I  wish  to  God  I 
could  1" 

He  was  on  his  feet  now,  supporting  himself  by  the  table. 
The  subtle  generous  liquor  he  had  drunk  had  evidently 
shaken  his  self-control,  and  burst  those  voluntary  bonds 
he  had  put  upon  himself  for  the  last  six  months;  the 
insidious  stimulant  had  also  put  a  strange  vigor  into  his 
blood  and  nerves.  His  face  was  flushed,  but  not  distorted ; 
his  eyes  were  brilliant,  but  not  fixed;  he  looked  as  he 
might  have  looked  to  Masters  in  his  strength  three  years 
before  on  that  very  hillside. 

"Listen  to  me,  Alvin  Mulrady,"  he  said,  leaning  over 
him  with  burning  eyes.  "Listen,  while  I  have  brain  to 
think  and  strength  to  utter,  why  I  have  learnt  to  distrust, 
fear,  and  hate  them !  You  think  you  know  my  story. 
Well,  hear  the  truth  from  me  to-night,  Alvin  Mulrady, 
and  do  not  wonder  if  I  have  cause." 

He  stopped,  and,  with  pathetic  inefficiency,  passed  the 
fingers  and  inward-turned  thumb  of  his  paralyzed  hand 
across  his  mouth,  as  if  to  calm  himself.  "Three  years 
ago  I  was  a  miner,  but  not  a  miner  like  you !  I  had  ex- 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          67 

perience,  I  had  scientific  knowledge,  I  had  a  theory,  and 
the  patience  and  energy  to  carry  it  out.  I  selected  a  spot 
that  had  all  the  indications,  made  a  tunnel,  and,  without 
aid,  counsel  or  assistance  of  any  kind,  worked  it  for  six 
months,  without  rest  or  cessation,  and  with  scarcely  food 
enough  to  sustain  my  body.  Well,  I  made  a  strike;  not 
like  you,  Mulrady,  not  a  blunder  of  good  luck,  a  fool's 
fortune — there,  I  don't  blame  you  for  it — but  in  perfect 
demonstration  of  my  theory,  the  reward  of  my  labor.  It 
was  no  pocket,  but  a  vein,  a  lead,  that  I  had  regularly 
hunted  down  and  found — a  fortune ! 

"I  never  knew  how  hard  I  had  worked  until  that  morn 
ing;  I  never  knew  what  privations  I  had  undergone  until 
that  moment  of  my  success,  when  I  found  I  could  scarcely 
think  or  move !  I  staggered  out  into  the  open  air.  The 
only  human  soul  near  me  was  a  disappointed  prospector, 
a  man  named  Masters,  who  had  a  tunnel  not  far  away.  I 
managed  to  conceal  from  him  my  good  fortune  and  my 
feeble  state,  for  I  was  suspicious  of  him — of  any  one ;  and 
as  he  was  going  away  that  day  I  thought  I  could  keep 
my  secret  until  he  was  gone.  I  was  dizzy  and  confused, 
but  I  remember  that  I  managed  to  write  a  letter  to  my 
wife,  telling  her  of  my  good  fortune,  and  begging  her 
to  come  to  me;  and  I  remember  that  I  saw  Masters  go. 
I  don't  remember  anything  else.  They  picked  me  up  on 
the  road,  near  that  boulder,  as  you  know." 

"I  know,"  said  Mulrady,  with  a  swift  recollection  of 
the  stage-driver's  account  of  his  discovery. 

"They  say,"  continued  Slinn,  tremblingly,  "that  I  never 
recovered  my  senses  or  consciousness  for  nearly  three 
years;  they  say  I  lost  my  memory  completely  during  my 
illness,  and  that  by  God's  mercy,  while  I  lay  in  that  hos 
pital,  I  knew  no  more  than  a  babe ;  they  say,  because  I 
could  not  speak  or  move,  and  only  had  my  food  as  nature 
required  it,  that  I  was  an  imbecile,  and  that  I  never  really 
came  to  my  senses  until  after  my  son  found  me  in  the 
hospital.  They  say  that — but  I  tell  you  to-night,  Alvin 
Mulrady/'  he  said,  raising  his  voice  to  a  hoarse  outcry, 
"I  tell  you  that  it  is  a  lie !  I  came  to  my  senses  a  week 
after  I  lay  on  that  hospital  cot;  I  kept  my  senses  and 


68          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

memory  ever  after  during  the  three  years  that  I  was  there, 
until  Harry  brought  his  cold,  hypocritical  face  to  my  bed 
side  and  recognized  me.  Do  you  understand?  I,  the 
possessor  of  millions,  lay  there  a  pauper.  Deserted  by 
wife  and  children — a  spectacle  for  the  curious,  a  sport 
for  the  doctors — and  I  knew  it!  I  heard  them  speculate 
on  the  cause  of  my  helplessness.  I  heard  them  talk  of 
excesses  and  indulgences — I,  that  never  knew  wine  or 
woman !  I  heard  a  preacher  speak  of  the  finger  of  God, 
and  point  to  me.  May  God  curse  him!" 

r'Go  slow,  old  man;  go  slow,"  said  Mulrady,  gently. 

"I  heard  them  speak  of  me  as  a  friendless  man,  an 
outcast,  a  criminal — a  being  whom  no  one  would  claim. 
They  were  right;  no  one  claimed  me.  The  friends  of 
others  visited  them;  relations  came  and  took  away  their 
kindred ;  a  few  lucky  ones  got  well ;  a  few,  equally  lucky, 
died !  I  alone  lived  on,  uncared  for,  deserted. 

"The  first  year,"  he  went  on  more  rapidly,  "I  prayed 
for  their  coming.  I  looked  for  them  every  day.  I  never 
lost  hope.  I  said  to  myself,  'She  has  not  got  my  letter; 
but  when  the  time  passes  she  will  be  alarmed  by  my 
silence,  and  then  she  will  come  or  send  some  one  to 
seek  me.'  A  young  student  got  interested  in  my  case, 
and,  by  studying  my  eyes,  thought  that  I  was  not  entirely 
imbecile  and  unconscious.  With  the  aid  of  an  alphabet, 
he  got  me  to  spell  my  name  and  town  in  Illinois,  and 
promised  by  signs  to  write  to  my  family.  But  in  an  evil 
moment  I  told  him  of  my  cursed  fortune,  and  in  that 
moment  I  saw  that  he  thought  me  a  fool  and  an  idiot. 
He  went  away,  and  I  saw  him  no  more.  Yet  I  still  hoped. 
I  dreamed  of  their  joy  at  finding  me,  and  the  reward  that 
my  wealth  would  give  them.  Perhaps  I  was  a  little  weak 
still,  perhaps  a  little  flighty,  too,  at  times ;  but  I  was  quite 
happy  that  year,  even  in  my  disappointment,  for  I  had 
still  hope !" 

He  paused,  and  again  composed  his  face  with  his 
paralyzed  hand;  but  his  manner  had  become  less  excited, 
and  his  voice  was  stronger. 

"A  change  must  have  come  over  me  the  second  year, 
for  I  only  dreaded  their  coming  now  and  finding  me  so 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          69 

altered.  A  horrible  idea  that  they  might,  like  the  student, 
believe  me  crazy  if  I  spoke  of  my  fortune  made  me  pray 
to  God  that  they  might  not  reach  me  until  after  I  had 
regained  my  health  and  strength — and  found  my  fortune. 
When  the  third  year  found  me  still  there — I  no  longer 
prayed  for  them — I  cursed  them !  I  swore  to  myself  that 
they  should  never  enjoy  my  wealth);  but  I  wanted  to  live, 
and  let  them  know  I  had  it.  I  found  myself  getting 
stronger;  but  as  I  had  no  money,  no  friends,  and  no 
where  to  go,  I  concealed  my  real  condition  from  the 
doctors,  except  to  give  them  my  name,  and  to  try  to  get 
some  little  work  to  do  to  enable  me  to  leave  the  hospital 
and  seek  my  lost  treasure.  One  day  I  found  out  by  acci 
dent  that  it  had  been  discovered !  You  understand — my 
treasure ! — that  had  cost  me  years  of  labor  and  my  rea 
son;  had  left  me  a  helpless,  forgotten  pauper.  That  gold 
I  had  never  enjoyed  had  been  found  and  taken  possession 
of  by  another!" 

He  checked  an  exclamation  from  Mulrady  with  his 
hand.  "They  say  they  picked  me  up  senseless  from  the 
floor,  where  I  must  have  fallen  when  I  heard  the  news — 
I  don't  remember — I  recall  nothing  until  I  was  confronted, 
nearly  three  weeks  after,  by  my  son,  who  had  called  at 
the  hospital,  as  a  reporter  for  a  paper,  and  had  acciden 
tally  discovered  me  through  my  name  and  appearance.  He 
thought  me  crazy,  or  a  fool.  I  didn't  undeceive  him.  I 
did  not  tell  him  the  story  of  the  mine  to  excite  his  doubts 
and  derision,  or,  worse  (if  I  could  bring  proof  to  claim 
it),  have  it  perhaps  pass  into  his  ungrateful  hands.  No; 
I  said  nothing.  I  let  him  bring  me  here.  He  could  do 
no  less,  and  common  decency  obliged  him  to  do  that." 

"And  what  proof  could  you  show  of  your  claim  ?"  asked 
Mulrady,  gravely. 

"If  I  had  that  letter — if  I  could  find  Masters,"  began 
Slinn,  vaguely. 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  the  letter  is,  or  what  has 
become  of  Masters?"  continued  Mulrady,  with  a  matter- 
of-fact  gravity,  that  seemed  to  increase  Slinn's  vagueness 
and  excite  his  irritability. 

"I  don't  know — I  sometimes  think — "    He  stopped,  sat 


70          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

down  again,  and  passed  his  hands  across  his  forehead. 
"I  have  seen  the  letter  somewhere  since.  Yes,"  he  went 
on,  with  sudden  vehemence,  "I  know  it,  I  have  seen  it ! 
I — "  His  brows  knitted,  his  features  began  to  work  con 
vulsively  ;  he  suddenly  brought  his  paralyzed  hand  down, 
partly  opened,  upon  the  table.  "I  will  remember  where." 

"Go  slow,  old  man;  go  slow." 

"You  asked  me  once  about  my  visions.  Well,  that  is 
one  of  them.  I  remember  a  man  somewhere  showing  me 
that  letter.  I  have  taken  it  from  his  hands  and  opened  it, 
and  knew  it  was  mine  by  the  specimens  of  gold  that  were 
in  it.  But  where — or  when— or  what  became  of  it,  I 
cannot  tell.  It  will  come  to  me — it  must  come  to  me 
soon." 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  Mulrady,  who  was  regarding 
him  with  an  expression  of  grave  curiosity,  and  said  bit 
terly,  "You  think  me  crazy.  I  know  it.  It  needed  only 
this." 

"Where  is  this  mine,"  asked  Mulrady,  without  heed 
ing  him. 

The  old  man's  eyes  swiftly  sought  the  ground. 

"It  is  a  secret,  then?" 

"No." 

"You  have  spoken  of  it  to  any  one?" 

"No." 

"Not  to  the  man  who  possesses  it?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  wouldn't  take  it  from  him." 

"Why  wouldn't  you?" 

"Because  that  man  is  yourself !" 

In  the  instant  of  complete  silence  that  followed  they 
could  hear  that  the  monotonous  patter  of  rain  on  the 
roof  had  ceased. 

"Then  all  this  was  in  my  shaft,  and  the  vein  I 
thought  I  struck  there  was  your  lead,  found  three  years 
ago  in  your  tunnel.  Is  that  your  idea?" 

"Yes?' 

"Then  I  don't  sabe  why  you  don't  want  to  claim  it." 

"I  have  told  you  why  I  don't  want  it  for  my  children. 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          71 

I  go  further,  now,  and  I  tell  you,  Alvin  Mulrady,  that 
I  was  willing  that  your  children  should  squander  it,  as 
they  were  doing.  It  has  only  been  a  curse  to  me ;  it  could 
only  be  a  curse  to  them;  but  I  thought  you  were  happy  in 
seeing  it  feed  selfishness  and  vanity.  You  think  me  bitter 
and  hard.  Well,  I  should  have  left  you  in  your  fool's 
paradise,  but  that  I  saw  to-night,  when  you  came  here, 
that  your  eyes  had  been  opened  like  mine.  You,  the 
possessor  of  my  wealth,  my  treasure,  could  not  buy  your 
children's  loving  care  and  company  with  your  millions, 
any  more  than  I  could  keep  mine  in  my  poverty.  You 
were  to-night  lonely  and  forsaken,  as  I  was.  We  were 
equal,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives.  If  that  cursed  gold 
had  dropped  down  the  shaft  between  us  into  the  hell  from 
which  it  sprang,  we  might  have  clasped  hands  like  brothers 
across  the  chasm." 

Mulrady,  who  in  a  friendly  show  of  being  at  his  ease 
had  not  yet  resumed  his  coat,  rose  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
and,  standing  before  the  hearth,  straightened  his  square 
figure  by  drawing  down  his  waistcoat  on  each  side  with 
two  powerful  thumbs.  After  a  moment's  contemplative 
survey  of  the  floor  between  him  and  the  speaker,  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  Slinn.  They  were  small  and  colorless; 
the  forehead  above  them  was  low,  and  crowned  with  a 
shock  of  tawny  reddish  hair ;  even  the  rude  strength  of 
his  lower  features  was  enfeebled  by  a  long,  straggling, 
goat-like  beard ;  but  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  whole 
face  was  impressed  and  transformed  with  a  strong  and 
simple  dignity. 

"Ez  far  ez  I  kin  see,  Slinn,"  he  said,  gravely,  "the 
pint  between  you  and  me  ain't  to  be  settled  by  our  chil 
dren,  or  wot  we  allow  is  doo  and  right  from  them  to  us. 
Afore  we  preach  at  them  for  playing  in  the  slumgullion, 
and  gettin'  themselves  splashed,  perhaps  we  mout  ez  well 
remember  that  that  thar  slumgullion  comes  from  our  own 
sluice-boxes,  where  we  wash  our  gold.  So  we'll  just  put 
them  behind  us,  so,"  he  continued,  with  a  backward  sweep 
of  his  powerful  hand  towards  the  chimney,  "and  goes  on. 
The  next  thing  that  crops  up  ahead  of  us  is  your  three 
years  in  the  hospital,  and  wot  you  went  through  at  that 


72         A  MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND41EADY 

time.  I  ain't  sayin'  it  wasn't  rough  on  you,  and  that  you 
didn't  have  it  about  as  big  as  it's  made;  but  ez  you'll 
allow  that  you'd  hev  had  that  for  three  years,  whether 
I'd  found  your  mine  or  whether  I  hadn't,  I  think  we  can 
put  that  behind  us,  too.  There's  nothin'  now  left  to  pros 
pect  but  your  story  of  your  strike.  Well,  take  your  own 
proofs.  Masters  is  not  here;  and  if  he  was,  accordin'  to 
your  own  story,  he  knows  nothin'  of  your  strike  that  day, 
and  could  only  prove  you  were  a  disappointed  prospector 
in  a  tunnel ;  your  letter — that  the  person  you  wrote  to 
never  got — you  can't  produce ;  and  if  you  did,  would  be 
only  your  own  story  without  proof !  There  is  not  a 
business  man  ez  would  look  at  your  claim;  there  isn't 
a  friend  of  yours  that  wouldn't  believe  you  were  crazy, 
and  dreamed  it  all ;  there  isn't  a  rival  of  yours  ez  wouldn't 
say  ez  you'd  invented  it.  Slinn,  I'm  a  business  man — I 
am  your  friend — I  am  your  rival — but  I  don't  think  you're 
lyin' — I  don't  think  you're  crazy — and  I'm  not  sure  your 
claim  ain't  a  good  one ! 

"Ef  you  reckon  from  that  that  I'm  goin'  to  hand  you 
over  the  mine  to-morrow,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause, 
raising  his  hand  with  a  deprecating  gesture,  "you're  mis 
taken.  For  your  own  sake,  and  the  sake  of  my  wife  and 
children,  you've  got  to  prove  it  more  clearly  than  you 
hev;  but  I  promise  you  that  from  this  night  forward  I 
will  spare  neither  time  nor  money  to  help  you  to  do  it. 
I  have  more  than  doubled  the  amount  that  you  would  have 
had,  had  you  taken  the  mine  the  day  you  came  from  the 
hospital.  When  you  prove  to  me  that  your  story  is  true — 
and  we  will  find  some  way  to  prove  it,  if  it  is  true — that 
amount  will  be  yours  at  once,  without  the  need  of  a  word 
from  law  or  lawyers.  If  you  want  my  name  to  that  in 
black  and  white,  come  to  the  office  to-morrow,  and  you 
shall  have  it." 

"And  you  think  I'll  take  it  now?"  said  the  old  man 
passionately.  "Do  you  think  that  your  charity  will  bring 
back  my  dead  wife,  the  three  years  of  my  lost  life,  the 
love  and  respect  of  my  children  ?  Or  do  you  think  that 
your  own  wife  and  children,  who  deserted  you  in  your 
wealth,  will  come  back  to  you  in  your  poverty  ?  No ! 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          73 

Let  the  mine  stay,  with  its  curse,  where  it  is — I'll  have 
none  of  it !" 

"Go  slow,  old  man;  go  slow,"  said  Mulrady,  quietly, 
putting  on  his  coat.  "You  will  take  the  mine  if  it  is 
yours ;  if  it  isn't,  I'll  keep  it.  If  it  is  yours,  you  will  give 
your  children  a  chance  to  sho  what  they  can  do  for  you 
in  your  sudden  prosperity,  as  I  shall  give  mine  a  chance 
to  show  how  they  can  stand  reverse  and  disappointment. 
If  my  head  is  level — and  I  reckon  it  is — they'll  both  pan 
out  all  right." 

He  turned  and  opened  the  door.  With  a  quick  revul 
sion  of  feeling,  Slinn  suddenly  seized  Mulrady's  hand 
between  both  of  his  own,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  Mul 
rady  smiled,  disengaged  his  hand  gently,  and  saying  sooth 
ingly,  "Go  slow,  old  man ;  go  slow,"  closed  the  door  behind 
him,  and  passed  out  into  the  clear  Christmas  dawn. 

For  the  stars,  with  the  exception  of  one  that  seemed 
to  sparkle  brightly  over  the  shaft  of  his  former  fortunes, 
were  slowly  paling.  A  burden  seemed  to  have  fallen  from 
his  square  shoulders  as  he  stepped  out  sturdily  into  the 
morning  air.  He  had  already  forgotten  the  lonely  man 
behind  him,  for  he  was  thinking  only  of  his  wife  and 
daughter.  And  at  the  same  moment  they  were  thinking 
of  him;  and  in  their  elaborate  villa  overlooking  the  blue 
Mediterranean  at  Cannes  were  discussing,  in  the  event  of 
Mamie's  marriage  with  Prince  Rosso  e  Negro,  the  possi 
bility  of  Mr.  Mulrady's  paying  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars,  the  gambling  debts  of  that  unfortunate 
but  deeply  conscientious  nobleman. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  Alvin  Mulrady  reentered  his  own  house,  he  no 
longer  noticed  its  loneliness.  Whether  the  events  of  the 
last  few  hours  had  driven  it  from  his  mind,  or  whether 
his  late  reflections  had  repeopled  it  with  his  family  under 
pleasanter  auspices,  it  would  be  difficult  to  determine. 
Destitute  as  he  was  of  imagination,  and  matter-of-fact 
in  his  judgments,  he  realized  his  new  situation  as  calmly 


74          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY 

as  he  would  have  considered  any  business  proposition. 
While  he  was  decided  to  act  upon  his  moral  convictions 
purely,  he  was  prepared  to  submit  the  facts  of  Slinn's 
claim  to  the  usual  patient  and  laborious  investigation  of 
his  practical  mind.  It  was  the  least  he  could  do  to  jus 
tify  the  ready  and  almost  superstitious  assent  he  had 
given  to  Slinn's  story. 

When  he  had  made  a  few  memoranda  at  his  desk  by 
the  growing  light,  he  again  took  the  key  of  the  attic, 
and  ascended  to  the  loft  that  held  the  tangible  memories 
of  his  past  life.  If  he  was  still  under  the  influence  of  his 
reflections,  it  was  with  very  different  sensations  that 
he  now  regarded  them.  Was  it  possible  that  these  ashes 
might  be  warmed  again,  and  these  scattered  embers  re 
kindled?  His  practical  sense  said  No!  whatever  his  wish 
might  have  been.  A  sudden  chill  came  over  him;  he 
began  to  realize  the  terrible  change  that  was  probable, 
more  by  the  impossibility  of  his  accepting  the  old  order 
of  things  than  by  his  voluntarily  abandoning  the  new. 
His  wife  and  children  would  never  submit.  They  would 
go  away  from  this  place,  far  away,  where  no  reminis 
cence  of  either  former  wealth  or  former  poverty  could 
obtrude  itself  upon  them.  Mamie — his  Mamie — should 
never  go  back  to  the  cabin,  since  desecrated  by  Slinn's 
daughters,  and  take  their  places.  No !  Why  should 
she? — because  of  the  half-sick,  half-crazy  dreams  of  an 
old  vindictive  man? 

He  stopped  suddenly.  In  moodily  turning  over  a  heap 
of  mining  clothing,  blankets,  and  india-rubber  boots,  he 
had  come  upon  an  old  pickaxe — the  one  he  had  found 
in  the  shaft ;  the  one  he  had  carefully  preserved  for  a 
year,  and  then  forgotten !  Why  had  he  not  remembered 
it  before?  He  was  frightened,  not  only  at  this  sudden 
resurrection  of  the  proof  he  was  seeking,  but  at  his 
own  fateful  forgetfulness.  Why  had  he  never  thought  of 
this  when  Slinn  was  speaking?  A  sense  of  shame,  as 
if  he  had  voluntarily  withheld  it  from  the  wronged  man, 
swept  over  him.  He  was  turning  away,  when  he  was 
again  startled. 

This  time  it  was  by  a  voice  from  below — a  voice  call- 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF    ROUGH-AND-READY          75 

ing  him — Slinn's  voice.  How  had  the  crippled  man  got 
here  so  soon,  and  what  did  he  want?  He  hurriedly 
laid  aside  the  pick,  which,  in  his  first  impulse,  he  had 
taken  to  the  door  of  the  loft  with  him,  and  descended 
the  stairs.  The  old  man  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his 
office  awaiting  him. 

As  Mulrady  approached,  he  trembled  violently,  and 
clung  to  the  doorpost  for  support. 

"I  had  to  come  over,  Mulrady,"  he  said,  in  a  choked 
voice;  "I  could  stand  it  there  no  longer.  I've  come  to 
beg  you  to  forget  all  that  I  have  said ;  to  drive  all  thought 
of  what  passed  between  us  last  night  out  of  your  head 
and  mine  forever !  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  swear  with 
me  that  neither  of  us  will  ever  speak  of  this  again  for 
ever.  It  is  not  worth  the  happiness  I  have  had  in  your 
friendship  for  the  last  half-year;  it  is  not  worth  the 
agony  I  have  suffered  in  its  loss  in  the  last  half-hour." 

Mulrady  grasped  his  outstretched  hand.  "P'raps,"  he 
said,  gravely,  "there  mayn't  be  any  use  for  another  word, 
if  you  can  answer  one  now.  Come  with  me.  No  mat 
ter,"  he  added,  as  Slinn  moved  with  difficulty;  "I  will 
help  you." 

He  half  supported,  half  lifted  the  paralyzed  man  up 
the  three  flights  of  stairs,  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
loft.  The  pick  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  where  he 
had  left  it.  "Look  around,  and  see  if  you  recognize  any 
thing." 

The  old  man's  eyes  fell  upon  the  implement  in  a  half- 
frightened  way,  and  then  lifted  themselves  interroga 
tively  to  Mulrady's  face. 

"Do  you  know  that  pick?" 

Slinn  raised  it  in  his  trembling  hands.  "I  think  I  do  ; 
and  yet—" 

"Slinn!  is  it  yours?" 

"No,"  he   said  hurriedly. 

"Then  what  makes  you  think  you  know  it?" 

"It  has  a  short  handle  like  one  I've  seen." 

"And  is  isn't  yours?" 

"No.  The  handle  of  mine  was  broken  and  spliced. 
I  was  too  poor  to  buy  a  new  one." 


76         A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

"Then  you  say  that  this  pick  which  I  found  in  my 
shaft  is  not  yours?" 

"Yes." 

"Slinn !" 

The  old  man  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead, 
looked  at  Mulrady,  and  dropped  his  eyes.  "It  is  not 
mine,"  he  said  simply. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Mulrady,  gravely. 

"And  you  will  not  speak  of  this  again?"  said  the  old 
man,  timidly. 

"I  promise  you — not  until  I  have  some  more  evidence." 

He  kept  his  word,  but  not  before  he  had  extorted  from 
Slinn  as  full  a  description  of  Masters  as  his  imperfect 
memory  and  still  more  imperfect  knowledge  of  his 
former  neighbor  could  furnish.  He  placed  this,  with  a 
large  sum  of  money  and  the  promise  of  a  still  larger 
reward,  in  the  hands  of  a  trustworthy  agent.  When  this 
was  done  he  resumed  his  old  relations  with  Slinn,  with 
the  exception  that  the  domestic  letters  of  Mrs.  Mulrady 
and  Mamie  were  no  longer  a  subject  of  comment,  and 
their  bills  no  longer  passed  through  his  private  secre 
tary's  hands. 

Three  months  passed;  the  rainy  season  had  ceased, 
the  hillsides  around  Mulrady's  shaft  were  bridal-like 
with  flowers;  indeed,  there  were  rumors  of  an  approach 
ing  fashionable  marriage  in  the  air,  and  vague  hints  in 
the  "Record"  that  the  presence  of  a  distinguished  capi 
talist  might  soon  be  required  abroad.  The  face  of  that 
distinguished  man  did  not,  however,  reflect  the  gayety 
of  nature  nor  the  anticipation  of  happiness;  on  the  con 
trary,  for  the  past  few  weeks,  he  had  appeared  dis 
turbed  and  anxious,  and  that  rude  tranquillity  which  had 
characterized  him  was  wanting.  People  shook  their 
heads;  a  few  suggested  speculations;  all  agreed  on  ex 
travagance. 

One  morning,  after  office  hours,  Slinn,  who  had  been 
watching  the  careworn  face  of  his  employer,  suddenly 
rose  and  limped  to  his  side. 

"We  promised  each  other,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  trem 
bling  with  emotion,  "never  to  allude  to  our  talk  of  Christ- 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          77 

mas  Eve  again  unless  we  had  other  proofs  of  what  I 
told  you  then.  We  have  none ;  I  don't  believe  we'll  ever 
have  any  more.  I  don't  care  if  we  ever  do,  and  I  break 
that  promise  now  because  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  un 
happy  and  know  that  this  is  the  cause." 

Mulrady  made  a  motion  of  deprecation,  but  the  old 
man  continued — 

"You  are  unhappy,  Alvin  Mulrady.  You  are  unhappy 
because  you  want  to  give  your  daughter  a  dowry  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  you  will  not  use 
the  fortune  that  you  think  may  be  mine." 

"Who's  been  talking  about  a  dowry?"  asked  Mulrady, 
with  an  angry  flush. 

"Don  Caesar  Alvarado  told  my  daughter." 

"Then  that  is  why  he  has  thrown  off  on  me  since  he 
returned,"  said  Mulrady,  with  sudden  small  malevolence, 
"just  that  he  might  unload  his  gossip  because  Mamie 
wouldn't  have  him.  The  old  woman  was  right  in  warnin' 
me  agin  him." 

The  outburst  was  so  unlike  him,  and  so  dwarfed  his 
large  though  common  nature  with  its  littleness,  that  it 
was  easy  to  detect  its  feminine  origin,  although  it  filled 
Slinn  with  vague  alarm. 

"Never  mind  him,"  said  the  old  man,  hastily;  "what 
I  wanted  to  say  now  is  that  I  abandon  everything  to 
you  and  yours.  There  are  no  proofs ;  there  never  will 
be  any  more  than  what  we  know,  than  what  we  have 
tested  and  found  wanting.  I  swear  to  you  that,  except 
to  show  you  that  I  have  not  lied  and  am  not  crazy,  I 
would  destroy  them  on  their  way  to  your  hands.  Keep 
the  money,  and  spend  it  as  you  will.  Make  your 
daughter  happy,  and,  through  her,  yourself.  You  have 
made  me  happy  through  your  liberality;  don't  make  me 
suffer  through  your  privation." 

"I  tell  you  what,  old  man,"  said  Mulrady,  rising  to 
his  feet,  with  an  awkward  mingling  of  frankness  and 
shame  in  his  manner  and  accent,  "I  should  like  to  pay 
that  money  for  Mamie,  and  let  her  be  a  princess,  if  it 
would  make  her  happy.  I  should  like  to  shut  the  lantern 
jaws  of  that  Don  Caesar,  who'd  be  too  glad  if  anything 


78          A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

happened  to  break  off  Mamie's  match.  But  I  shouldn't 
touch  that  capital — unless  you'd  lend  it  to  me.  If  you'll 
take  a  note  from  me,  payable  if  the  property  ever  be 
comes  yours,  I'd  thank  you.  A  mortgage  on  the  old 
house  and  garden,  and  the  lands  I  bought  of  Don  Caesar, 
outside  the  mine,  will  screen  you." 

"If  that  pleases  you,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  smile, 
"have  your  way;  and  if  I  tear  up  the  note,  it  does  not 
concern  you." 

It  did  please  the  distinguished  capitalist  of  Rough-and- 
Ready ;  for  the  next  few  days  his  face  wore  a  bright 
ened  expression,  and  he  seemed  to  have  recovered  his 
old  tranquillity.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  slight  touch  of 
consequence  in  his  manner,  the  first  ostentation  he  had 
ever  indulged  in,  when  he  was  informed  one  morning 
at  his  private  office  that  Don  Caesar  Alvarado  was  in 
the  counting-house,  desiring  a  few  moments'  conference. 
"Tell  him  to  come  in,"  said  Mulrady,  shortly.  The  door 
opened  upon  Don  Caesar — erect,  sallow,  and  grave.  Mul 
rady  had  not  seen  him  since  his  return  from  Europe, 
and  even  his  inexperienced  eyes  were  struck  with  the 
undeniable  ease  and  grace  with  which  the  young 
Spanish-American  had  assimilated  the  style  and  fashion 
of  an  older  civilization.  It  seemed  rather  as  if  he  had 
returned  to  a  familiar  condition  than  adopted  a  new  one. 

"Take  a  cheer,"  said  Mulrady. 

The  young  man  looked  at  Slinn  with  quietly  persis 
tent  significance. 

"You  can  talk  all  the  same,"  said  Mulrady,  accepting 
the  significance.  "He's  my  private  secretary." 

"It  seems  that  for  that  reason  we  might  choose  an 
other  moment  for  our  conversation,"  returned  Don 
Caesar,  haughtily.  "Do  I  understand  you  cannot  see  me 
now?" 

Mulrady  hesitated.  He  had  always  revered  and 
recognized  a  certain  social  superiority  in  Don  Ramon 
Alvarado;  somehow  his  son — a  young  man  of  half  his 
age,  and  once  a  possible  son-in-law — appeared  to  claim 
that  recognition  also.  He  rose,  without  a  word,  and 
preceded  Don  Caesar  up-stairs  into  the  drawing-room. 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY          79 

The  alien  portrait  on  the  wall  seemed  to  evidently  take 
sides  with  Don  Caesar,  as  against  the  common  intruder, 
Mulrady. 

"I  hoped  the  Sefiora  Mulrady  might  have  saved  me 
this  interview,"  said  the  young  man,  stiffly;  "or  at  least 
have  given  you  some  intimation  of  the  reason  why  I 
seek  it.  As  you  just  now  proposed  my  talking  to  you 
in  the  presence  of  the  unfortunate  Senor  Esslinn  him 
self,  it  appears  she  has  not." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at,  or  what  Mrs. 
Mulrady's  got  to  do  with  Slinn  or  you,"  said  Mulrady, 
in  angry  uneasiness. 

"Do  I  understand,"  said  Don  Caesar,  sternly,  "that 
Sefiora  Mulrady  has  not  told  you  that  I  entrusted  to  her 
an  important  letter,  belonging  to  Senor  Esslinn,  which 
I  had  the  honor  to  discover  in  the  wood  six  months 
ago,  and  which  she  said  she  would  refer  to  you?" 

"Letter?"  echoed  Mulrady,  slowly;  "my  wife  had  a 
letter  of  Slinn's?" 

Don  Caesar  regarded  the  millionaire  attentively.  "It  is 
as  I  feared,"  he  said,  gravely.  "You  do  not  know,  or 
you  would  not  have  remained  silent."  He  then  briefly 
recounted  the  story  of  his  finding  Slinn's  letter,  his  ex 
hibition  of  it  to  the  invalid,  its  disastrous  effect  upon 
him,  and  his  innocent  discovery  of  the  contents.  "I  be 
lieved  myself  at  that  time  on  the  eve  of  being  allied 
with  your  family,  Senor  Mulrady,"  he  said,  haughtily; 
"and  when  I  found  myself  in  the  possession  of  a  secret 
which  affected  its  integrity  and  good  name,  I  did  not 
choose  to  leave  it  in  the  helpless  hands  of  its  imbecile 
owner,  or  his  sillier  children,  but  proposed  to  trust  it  to 
the  care  of  the  Sefiora,  that  she  and  you  might  deal  with 
it  as  became  your  honor  and  mine.  I  followed  her  to 
Paris,  and  gave  her  the  letter  there.  She  affected  to 
laugh  at  any  pretension  of  the  writer,  or  any  claim  he 
might  have  on  your  bounty ;  but  she  kept  the  letter,  and, 
I  fear,  destroyed  it.  You  will  understand,  Senor  Mul 
rady,  that  when  I  found  that  my  attentions  were  no 
longer  agreeable  to  your  daughter,  I  had  no  longer  the 
right  to  speak  to  you  on  the  subject,  nor  could  I,  with- 


80         A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

out  misapprehension,  force  her  to  return  it.  I  should 
have  still  kept  the  secret  to  myself,  if  I  had  not  since 
my  return  here  made  the  nearer  acquaintance  of  Senor 
Esslinn's  daughters.  I  cannot  present  myself  at  his 
house,  as  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  the  Senorita  Vashti, 
until  I  have  asked  his  absolution  for  my  complicity  in 
the  wrong  that  has  been  done  to  him.  I  cannot,  as  a 
caballero,  do  that  without  your  permission.  It  is  for 
that  purpose  I  am  here." 

It  needed  only  this  last  blow  to  complete  the  humilia 
tion  that  whitened  Mulrady's  face.  But  his  eye  was 
none  the  less  clear  and  his  voice  none  the  less  steady 
as  he  turned  to  Don  Caesar. 

"You  know  perfectly  the  contents  of  that  letter?" 

"I  have  kept  a  copy  of  it." 

"Come  with  me." 

He  preceded  his  visitor  down  the  staircase  and  back 
into  his  private  office.  Slinn  looked  up  at  his  employer's 
face  in  unrestrained  anxiety.  Mulrady  sat  down  at  his 
desk,  wrote  a  few  hurried  lines,  and  rang  a  bell.  A 
manager  appeared  from  the  counting-room. 

"Send  that  to  the  bank." 

He  wiped  his  pen  as  methodically  as  if  he  had  not 
at  that  moment  countermanded  the  order  to  pay  his 
daughter's  dowry,  and  turned  quietly  to  Slinn. 

"Don  Caesar  Alvarado  has  found  the  letter  you  wrote 
you  wife  on  the  day  you  made  your  strike  in  the  tunnel 
that  is  now  my  shaft.  He  gave  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Mul 
rady  ;  but  he  has  kept  a  copy." 

Unheeding  the  frightened  gesture  of  entreaty  from 
Slinn,  equally  with  the  unfeigned  astonishment  of  Don 
Caesar,  who  was  entirely  unprepared  for  this  revelation 
of  Mulrady's  and  Slinn's  confidences,  he  continued,  "He 
has  brought  the  copy  with  him.  I  reckon  it  would  be 
only  square  for  you  to  compare  it  with  what  you  remem 
ber  of  the  original." 

In  obedience  to  a  gesture  from  Mulrady,  Don  Caesar 
mechanically  took  from  his  pocket  a  folded  paper,  and 
handed  it  to  the  paralytic.  But  Slinn's  trembling  fingers 
could  scarcely  unfold  the  paper;  and  as  his  eyes  fell 


A   MILLIONAIRE    OF   ROUGH-AND-READY         81 

upon  its  contents,  his  convulsive  lips  could  not  articulate 
a  word. 

"P'raps  I'd  better  read  it  for  you,"  said  Mulrady, 
gently.  "You  kin  follow  me  and  stop  me  when  I  go 
wrong." 

He  took  the  paper,  and,  in  dead  silence,  read  as  fol 
lows  : — 

"DEAR  WIFE, — I've  just  struck  gold  in  my  tunnel,  and 
you  must  get  ready  to  come  here  with  the  children,  at 
once.  It  was  after  six  months'  hard  work;  and  I'm  so 
weak  I  ...  It's  a  fortune  for  us  all.  We  should  be 
rich  even  if  it  were  only  a  branch  vein  dipping  west 
towards  the  next  tunnel,  instead  of  dipping  east,  accord 
ing  to  my  theory — " 

"Stop !"  said  Slinn,  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  room. 

Mulrady  looked  up. 

"It's  wrong,  ain't  it?"  he  asked,  anxiously;  "it  should 
be  east  towards  the  next  tunnel." 

"No!     It's  right!     I  am  wrong!     We're  all  wrong!" 

Slinn  had  risen  to  his  feet,  erect  and  inspired.  "Don't 
you  see,"  he  almost  screamed,  with  passionate  ve 
hemence,  "it's  Masters'  abandoned  tunnel  your  shaft  has 
struck?  Not  mine!  It  was  Masters'  pick  you  found! 
I  know  it  now !" 

"And  your  own  tunnel?"  said  Mulrady,  springing  to 
his  feet  in  excitement.  "And  your  strike?" 

"Is  still  there!" 

The  next  instant,  and  before  another  question  could 
be  asked,  Slinn  had  darted  from  the  room.  In  the  ex 
altation  of  that  supreme  discovery  he  regained  the  full 
control  of  his  mind  and  body.  Mulrady  and  Don  Caesar, 
no  less  excited,  followed  him  precipitately,  and  with  dif 
ficulty  kept  up  with  his  feverish  speed.  Their  way  lay 
along  the  base  of  the  hill  below  Mulrady's  shaft,  and 
on  a  line  with  Masters'  abandoned  tunnel.  Only  once  he 
stopped  to  snatch  a  pick  from  the  hand  of  an  astonished 
Chinaman  at  work  in  a  ditch,  as  he  still  kept  on  his  way, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  the  shaft.  Here  he  stopped 
before  a  jagged  hole  in  the  hillside.  Bared  to  the  sky 
and  air,  the  very  openness  of  its  abandonment,  its  un- 


82         A   MILLIONAIRE   OF   ROUGH-AND-READY 

propitious  position,  and  distance  from  the  strike  in  Mul- 
rady's  shaft  had  no  doubt  preserved  its  integrity  from 
wayfarer  or  prospector. 

"You  can't  go  in  there  alone,  and  without  a  light," 
said  Mulrady,  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  ex 
cited  man.  "Let  me  get  more  help  and  proper  tools." 

"I  know  every  step  in  the  dark  as  in  the  daylight," 
returned  Slinn,  struggling.  "Let  me  go,  while  I  have 
yet  strength  and  reason  !  Stand  aside  !" 

He  broke  from  them,  and  the  next  moment  was  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  yawning  blackness.  They  waited  with 
bated  breath  until,  after  a  seeming  eternity  of  night  and 
silence,  they  heard  his  returning  footsteps,  and  ran  for 
ward  to  meet  him.  As  he  was  carrying  something 
clasped  to  his  breast,  they  supported  him  to  the  opening. 
But  at  the  same  moment  the  object  of  his  search  and 
his  burden,  a  misshapen  wedge  of  gold  and  quartz, 
dropped  with  him,  and  both  fell  together  with  equal 
immobility  to  the  ground.  He  had  still  strength  to  turn 
his  fading  eyes  to  the  other  millionaire  of  Rough-and- 
Ready,  who  leaned  over  him. 

"You — see,"  he  gasped,  brokenly,  "I  was  not — crazy !" 

No.     He  was  dead! 


DEVIL'S    FORD 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  a  season  of  unequalled  prosperity  in  Devil's 
Ford.  The  half  a  dozen  cabins  scattered  along  the 
banks  of  the  North  Fork,  as  if  by  some  overflow  of  that 
capricious  river,  had  become  augmented  during  a  week 
of  fierce  excitment  by  twenty  or  thirty  others,  that  were 
huddled  together  on  the  narrow  gorge  of  Devil's  Spur, 
or  cast  up  on  its  steep  sides.  So  sudden  and  violent 
had  been  the  change  of  fortune,  that  the  dwellers  in  the 
older  cabins  had  not  had  time  to  change  with  it,  but 
still  kept  their  old  habits,  customs,  and  even  their  old 
clothes.  The  flour  pan  in  which  their  daily  bread  was 
mixed  stood  on  the  rude  table  side  by  side  with  the 
"prospecting  pans,"  half  full  of  gold  washed  up  from 
their  morning's  work;  the  front  windows  of  the  newer 
tenements  looked  upon  the  one  single  thoroughfare,  but 
the  back  door  opened  upon  the  uncleared  wilderness, 
still  haunted  by  the  misshapen  bulk  of  bear  or  the  nightly 
gliding  of  catamount. 

Neither  had  success  as  yet  affected  their  boyish  sim 
plicity  and  the  frankness  of  old  frontier  habits ;  they 
played  with  their  new-found  riches  with  the  naive  de 
light  of  children,  and  rehearsed  their  glowing  future 
with  the  importance  and  triviality  of  school-boys. 

"I've  bin  kalklatin'/'  said  Dick  Mattingly,  leaning  on 
his  long-handled  shovel  with  lazy  gravity,  "that  when 
I  go  to  Rome  this  winter,  I'll  get  one  o'  them  marble 
sharps  to  chisel  me  a  statoo  o'  some  kind  to  set  up  on  the 
spot  where  we  made  our  big  strike.  Suthin'  to  remember 
it  by,  you  know." 

"What  kind  o'  statoo — Washington  or  Webster?" 
83 


84  DEVIL'S    FORD 

asked  one  of  the  Kearney  brothers,  without  looking  up 
from  his  work. 

"No — I  reckon  one  o'  them  fancy  groups — one  o'  them 
Latin  goddesses  that  Fairfax  is  always  gassin'  about, 
sorter  leadin',  directin'  and  bossin'  us  where  to  dig." 

"You'd  make  a  healthy-lookin'  figger  in  a  group,"  re 
sponded  Kearney,  critically  regarding  an  enormous  patch 
in  Mattingly's  trousers.  "Why  don't  you  have  a  fountain 
instead  ?" 

"Where'll  you  get  the  water?"  demanded  the  first 
speaker,  in  return.  "You  know  there  ain't  enough  in  the 
North  Fork  to  do  a  week's  washing  for  the  camp — to 
say  nothin'  of  its  color." 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Kearney,  with  self-posses 
sion.  "When  I've  built  that  there  reservoir  on  Devil's 
Spur,  and  bring  the  water  over  the  ridge  from  Union 
Ditch,  there'll  be  enough  to  spare  for  that." 

"Better  mix  it  up,  I  reckon — have  suthin'  half  statoo, 
half  fountain,"  interposed  the  elder  Mattingly,  better 
known  as  "Maryland  Joe,"  "and  set  it  up  afore  the  Town 
Hall  and  Free  Library  I'm  kalklatin'  to  give.  Do  that, 
and  you  can  count  on  me." 

After  some  further  discussion,  it  was  gravely  settled 
that  Kearney  should  furnish  water  brought  from  the 
Union  Ditch,  twenty  miles  away,  at  a  cost  of  two  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars,  to  feed  a  memorial  fountain 
erected  by  Mattingly,  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
as  a  crowning  finish  to  public  buildings  contributed  by 
Maryland  Joe,  to  the  extent  of  half  a  million  more.  The 
disposition  of  these  vast  sums  by  gentlemen  wearing 
patched  breeches  awakened  no  sense  of  the  ludicrous, 
nor  did  any  doubt,  reservation,  or  contingency  enter  into 
the  plans  of  the  charming  enthusiasts  themselves.  The 
foundation  of  their  airy  castles  lay  already  before  them 
in  the  strip  of  rich  alluvium  on  the  river  bank,  where 
the  North  Fork,  sharply  curving  round  the  base  of 
Devil's  Spur,  had  for  centuries  swept  the  detritus  of 
gulch  and  canon.  They  had  barely  crossed  the  thresh 
old  of  this  treasure-house,  to  find  themselves  rich  men ; 
what  possibilities  of  affluence  might  be  theirs  when  they 


DEVIL'S   FORD  85 

had  fully  exploited  their  possessions?  So  confident  were 
they  of  that  ultimate  prospect,  that  the  wealth  already 
thus  obtained  was  religiously  expended  in  engines  and 
machinery  for  the  boring  of  wells  and  the  conveyance 
of  that  precious  water  which  the  exhausted  river  had 
long  since  ceased  to  yield.  It  seemed  as  if  the  gold  they 
had  taken  out  was  by  some  ironical  compensation  grad 
ually  making  its  way  back  to  the  soil  again  through 
ditch  and  flume  and  reservoir. 

Such  was  the  position  of  affairs  at  Devil's  Ford  on 
the  1 3th  of  August,  1860.  It  was  noon  of  a  hot  day. 
Whatever  movement  there  was  in  the  stifling  air  was 
seen  rather  than  felt  in  a  tremulous,  quivering,  upward- 
moving  dust  along  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  through 
which  the  spires  of  the  pines  were  faintly  visible. 
There  was  no  water  in  the  bared  and  burning  bars  of 
the  river  to  reflect  the  vertical  sun,  but  under  its  direct 
rays  one  or  two  tinned  roofs  and  corrugated  zinc  cabins 
struck  fire,  a  few  canvas  tents  became  dazzling  to  the 
eye,  and  the  white  wooded  corral  of  the  stage  office 
and  hotel  insupportable.  For  two  hours  no  one  ventured 
in  the  glare  of  the  open,  or  even  to  cross  the  narrow, 
unshadowed  street,  whose  dull  red  dust  seemed  to  glow 
between  the  lines  of  straggling  houses.  The  heated 
shells  of  these  green  unseasoned  tenements  gave  out  a 
pungent  odor  of  scorching  wood  and  resin.  The  usual 
hurried,  feverish  toil  in  the  claim  was  suspended;  the 
pick  and  shovel  were  left  sticking  in  the  richest  "pay 
gravel;"  the  toiling  millionaires  themselves,  ragged, 
dirty,  and  perspiring,  lay  panting  under  the  nearest 
shade,  where  the  pipes  went  out  listlessly,  and  conver 
sation  sank  to  monosyllables. 

"There's  Fairfax,"  said  Dick  Mattingly,  at  last,  with 
a  lazy  effort.  His  face  was  turned  to  the  hillside,  where 
a  man  had  just  emerged  from  the  woods,  and  was  halt 
ing  irresolutely  before  the  glaring  expanse  of  upheaved 
gravel  and  glistening  boulders  that  stretched  between 
him  and  the  shaded  group.  "He's  going  to  make  a  break 
for  it,"  he  added,  as  the  stranger,  throwing  his  linen 
coat  over  his  head,  suddenly  started  into  an  Indian  trot 


86  DEVIL'S    FORD 

through  the  pelting  sunbeams  toward  them.  This  strange 
act  was  perfectly  understood  by  the  group,  who  knew 
that  in  that  intensely  dry  heat  the  danger  of  exposure 
was  lessened  by  active  exercise  and  the  profuse  perspira 
tion  that  followed  it.  In  another  moment  the  stranger 
had  reached  their  side,  dripping  as  if  rained  upon,  mop 
ping  his  damp  curls  and  handsome  bearded  face  with 
his  linen  coat,  as  he  threw  himself  pantingly  on  the 
ground. 

"I  struck  out  over  here  first,  boys,  to  give  you  a  little 
warning,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  had  gained  breath. 
"That  engineer  will  be  down  here  to  take  charge  as  soon 
as  the  six  o'clock  stage  comes  in.  He's  an  oldish  chap, 

has  got  a  family  of  two  daughters,  and — I — am — d d 

if  he  is  not  bringing  them  down  here  with  him." 

"Oh,  go  long !"  exclaimed  the  five  men  in  one  voice, 
raising  themselves  on  their  hands  and  elbows,  and  glar 
ing  at  the  speaker. 

"Fact,  boys !  Soon  as  I  found  it  out  I  just  waltzed 
into  that  Jew  shop  at  the  Crossing  and  bought  up  all 
the  clothes  that  would  be  likely  to  suit  you  fellows,  be 
fore  anybody  else  got  a  show.  I  reckon  I  cleared  out 
the  shop.  The  duds  are  a  little  mixed  in  style,  but  I 
reckon  they're  clean  and  whole,  and  a  man  might  face 
a  lady  in  'em.  I  left  them  round  at  the  old  Buckeye 
Spring,  where  they're  handy  without  attracting  attention. 
Yo'.i  boys  can  go  there  for  a  general  wash-up,  rig  your 
selves  up  without  saying  anything,  and  then  meander 
back  careless  and  easy  in  your  store  clothes,  just  as  the 
stage  is  coming  in,  sabef" 

"Why  didn't  you  let  us  know  earlier?"  asked  Mat- 
tingly  aggrievedly ;  "you've  been  back  here  at  least  an 
hour." 

"I've  been  getting  some  place  ready  for  them,"  re 
turned  the  new-comer.  "We  might  have  managed  to  put 
the  man  somewhere,  if  he'd  been  alone,  but  these  women 
want  family  accommodation.  There  was  nothing  left  for 
me  to  do  but  to  buy  up  Thompson's  saloon." 

"No?"  interrupted  his  audience,  half  in  incredulity, 
half  in  protestation. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  87 

"Fact !  You  boys  will  have  to  take  your  drinks  under 
canvas  again,  I  reckon !  But  I  made  Thompson  let 
those  gold-framed  mirrors  that  used  to  stand  behind  the 
bar  go  into  the  bargain,  and  they  sort  of  furnish  the 
room.  You  know  the  saloon  is  one  of  them  patent 
houses  you  can  take  to  pieces,  and  I've  been  reckoning 
you  boys  will  have  to  pitch  in  and  help  me  to  take  the 
whole  shanty  over  to  the  laurel  bushes,  and  put  it  up 
agin  Kearney's  cabin." 

"What's  all  that?"  said  the  younger  Kearney,  with 
an  odd  mingling  of  astonishment  and  bashful  gratifica 
tion. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  yours  is  the  cleanest  house,  because 
it's  the  newest,  so  you'll  just  step  out  and  let  us  knock 
in  one  o'  the  gables,  and  clap  it  on  to  the  saloon,  and 
make  one  house  of  it,  don't  you  see?  There'll  be  two 
rooms,  one  for  the  girls  and  the  other  for  the  old  man." 

The  astonishment  and  bewilderment  of  the  party  had 
gradually  given  way  to  a  boyish  and  impatient  interest. 

"Hadn't  we  better  do  the  job  at  once?"  suggested 
Dick  Mattingly. 

"Or  throw  ourselves  into  those  new  clothes,  so  as  to 
be  ready,"  added  the  younger  Kearney,  looking  down  at 
his  ragged  trousers.  "I  say,  Fairfax,  what  are  the  girls 
like,  eh?" 

All  the  others  had  been  dying  to  ask  the  question, 
yet  one  and  all  laughed  at  the  conscious  manner  and 
blushing  cheek  of  the  questioner. 

"You'll  find  out  quick  enough,"  returned  Fairfax, 
whose  curt  carelessness  did  not,  however,  prevent  a 
slight  increase  of  color  on  his  own  cheek.  "We'd  better 
get  that  job  off  our  hands  before  doing  anything  else. 
So,  if  you're  ready,  boys,  we'll  just  waltz  down  to 
Thompson's  and  pack  up  the  shanty.  He's  out  of  it  by 
this  time,  I  reckon.  You  might  as  well  be  perspiring 
to  some  purpose  over  there  as  gaspin'  under  this  tree. 
We  won't  go  back  to  work  this  afternoon,  but  knock 
off  now,  and  call  it  half  a  day.  Come !  Hump  your 
selves,  gentlemen.  Are  you  ready?  One,  two,  three, 
and  away !" 


88  DEVIL'S    FORD 

In  another  instant  the  tree  was  deserted;  the  figures 
of  the  five  millionaires  of  Devil's  Ford,  crossing  the 
fierce  glare  of  the  open  space,  with  boyish  alacrity,  glis 
tened  in  the  sunlight,  and  then  disappeared  in  the  nearest 
fringe  of  thickets. 

CHAPTER  II 

Six  hours  later,  when  the  shadow  of  Devil's  Spur 
had  crossed  the  river,  and  spread  a  slight  coolness  over 
the  flat  beyond,  the  Pioneer  coach,  leaving  the  summit, 
began  also  to  bathe  its  heated  bulk  in  the  long  shadows 
of  the  descent.  Conspicuous  among  the  dusty  passengers, 
the  two  pretty  and  youthful  faces  of  the  daughters  of 
Philip  Carr,  mining  superintendent  and  engineer,  looked 
from  the  windows  with  no  little  anxiety  towards  their 
future  home  in  the  straggling  settlement  below,  that  oc 
casionally  came  in  view  at  the  turns  of  the  long  zig 
zagging  road.  A  slight  look  of  comical  disappointment 
passed  between  them  as  they  gazed  upon  the  sterile 
flat,  dotted  with  unsightly  excrescences  that  stood  equally 
for  cabins  or  mounds  of  stone  and  gravel.  It  was  so 
feeble  and  inconsistent  a  culmination  to  the  beautiful 
scenery  they  had  passed  through,  so  hopeless  and  imbe 
cile  a  conclusion  to  the  preparation  of  that  long  pic 
turesque  journey,  with  its  glimpses  of  sylvan  and 
pastoral  glades  and  canons,  that,  as  the  coach  swept 
down  the  last  incline,  and  the  remorseless  monotony 
of  the  dead  level  spread  out  before  them,  furrowed 
by  ditches  and  indented  by  pits,  under  cover  of  shield 
ing  their  cheeks  from  the  impalpable  dust  that  rose 
beneath  the  plunging  wheels,  they  buried  their  faces 
in  their  handkerchiefs,  to  hide  a  few  half-hysterical 
tears.  Happily,  their  father,  completely  absorbed  in  a 
practical,  scientific,  and  approving  contemplation  of  the 
topography  and  material  resources  of  the  scene  of  his 
future  labors,  had  no  time  to  notice  their  defection.  It 
was  not  until  the  stage  drew  up  before  a  rambling  tene 
ment  bearing  the  inscription,  "Hotel  and  Stage  Office," 
that  he  became  fully  aware  of  it. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  89 

"We  can't  stop  here,  papa,"  said  Christie  Carr  de 
cidedly,  with  a  shake  of  her  pretty  head.  "You  can't 
expect  that." 

Mr.  Carr  looked  up  at  the  building;  it  was  half 
grocery,  half  saloon.  Whatever  other  accommodations 
it  contained  must  have  been  hidden  in  the  rear,  as  the 
flat  roof  above  was  almost  level  with  the  raftered  ceiling 
of  the  shop. 

"Certainly,"  he  replied  hurriedly;  "we'll  see  to  that  in 
a  moment.  I  dare  say  it's  all  right.  I  told  Fairfax 
we  were  coming.  Somebody  ought  to  be  here." 

"But  they're  not,"  said  Jessie  Carr  indignantly ;  "and 
the  few  that  were  here  scampered  off  like  rabbits  to 
their  burrows  as  soon  as  they  saw  us  get  down." 

It  was  true.  The  little  gro*up  of  loungers  before  the 
building  had  suddenly  disappeared.  There  was  the  flash 
of  a  red  shirt  vanishing  in  an  adjacent  doorway;  the 
fading  apparition  of  a  pair  of  high  boots  and  blue  over 
alls  in  another;  the  abrupt  withdrawal  of  a  curly  blond 
head  from  a  sashless  window  over  the  way.  Even  the 
saloon  was  deserted,  although  a  back  door  in  the  dim 
recess  seemed  to  creak  mysteriously.  The  stage-coach, 
with  the  other  passengers,  had  already  rattled  away. 

"I  certainly  think  Fairfax  understood  that  I — "  began 
Mr.  Carr. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  pressure  of  Christie's  fin 
gers  on  his  arm  and  a  subdued  exclamation  from  Jessie, 
who  was  staring  down  the  street. 

"What  are  they?"  she  whispered  in  her  sister's  ear. 
"Nigger  minstrels,  a  circus,  or  what?" 

The  five  millionaires  of  Devil's  Ford  had  just  turned 
the  corner  of  the  straggling  street,  and  were  approach 
ing  in  single  file.  One  glance  was  sufficient  to  show 
that  they  had  already  availed  themselves  of  the  new 
clothing  bought  by  Fairfax,  had  washed,  and  one  or  two 
had  shaved.  But  the  result  was  startling. 

Through  some  fortunate  coincidence  in  size,  Dick  Mat- 
tingly  was  the  only  one  who  had  achieved  an  entire 
new  suit.  But  it  was  of  funereal  black  cloth,  and  al 
though  relieved  at  one  extremity  by  a  pair  of  high  rid- 


90  DEVIL'S    FORD 

ing  boots,  in  which  his  too  short  trousers  were  tucked, 
and  at  the  other  by  a  tall  white  hat,  and  cravat  of  ag 
gressive  yellow,  the  effect  was  depressing.  In  agreeable 
contrast,  his  brother,  Maryland  Joe,  was  attired  in  a 
thin  fawn-colored  summer  overcoat,  lightly  worn  open, 
so  as  to  show  the  unstarched  bosom  of  a  white  em 
broidered  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  nankeen  trousers  and 
pumps. 

The  Kearney  brothers  had  divided  a  suit  between  them, 
the  elder  wearing  a  tightly-fitting,  single-breasted  blue 
frock-coat  and  a  pair  of  pink  striped  cotton  trousers, 
while  the  younger  candidly  displayed  the  trousers  of  his 
brother's  suit,  as  a  harmonious  change  to  a  shining  black 
alpaca  coat  and  crimson  neckerchief.  Fairfax,  who 
brought  up  the  rear,  had,  with  characteristic  unselfish 
ness,  contented  himself  with  a  French  workman's  blue 
blouse  and  a  pair  of  white  duck  trousers.  Had  they 
shown  the  least  consciousness  of  their  finery,  or  of  its 
absurdity,  they  would  have  seemed  despicable.  But  only 
one  expression  beamed  on  the  five  sunburnt  and  shining 
faces — a  look  of  unaffected  boyish  gratification  and  un 
restricted  welcome. 

They  halted  before  Mr.  Carr  and  his  daughters, 
simultaneously  removed  their  various  and  remarkable 
head  coverings,  and  waited  until  Fairfax  advanced  and 
severally  presented  them.  Jessie  Carr's  half-frightened 
smile  took  refuge  in  the  trembling  shadows  of  her  dark 
lashes;  Christie  Carr  stiffened  slightly,  and  looked 
straight  before  her. 

"We  reckoned — that  is — we  intended  to  meet  you  and 
the  young  ladies  at  the  grade,"  said  Fairfax,  reddening 
a  little  as  he  endeavored  to  conceal  his  too  ready  slang, 
"and  save  you  from  trapesing — from  dragging  yourselves 
up  grade  again  to  your  house." 

"Then  there  is  a  house  ?"  said  Jessie,  with  an  alarming 
frank  laugh  of  relief,  that  was,  however,  as  frankly 
reflected  in  the  boyishly  appreciative  eyes  of  the  young 
men. 

"Such  as  it  is,"  responded  Fairfax,  with  a  shade  of 
anxiety,  as  he  glanced  at  the  fresh  and  pretty  costumes 


DEVIL'S    FORD  91 

a  small  one  by  Thursday.  You  couldn't  do  anything  on 
Saratoga  trunks  resting  hopelessly  on  the  veranda.  "I'm 
afraid  it  isn't  much,  for  what  you're  accustomed  to. 
But,"  he  added  more  cheerfully,  "it  will  do  for  a  day 
or  two,  and  perhaps  you'll  give  us  the  pleasure  of  show 
ing  you  the  way  there  now." 

The  procession  was  quickly  formed.  Mr.  Carr,  alive 
only  to  the  actual  business  that  had  brought  him  there, 
at  once  took  possession  of  Fairfax,  and  began  to  dis 
close  his  plans  for  the  working  of  the  mine,  occasion 
ally  halting  to  look  at  the  work  already  done  in  the 
ditches,  and  to  examine  the  field  of  his  future  operations. 
Fairfax,  not  displeased  at  being  thus  relieved  of  a  lighter 
attendance  on  Mr.  Carr's  daughters,  nevertheless  from 
time  to  time  cast  a  paternal  glance  backwards  upon  their 
escorts,  who  had  each  seized  a  handle  of  the  two  trunks, 
and  were  carrying  them  in  couples  at  the  young  ladies' 
side.  The  occupation  did  not  offer  much  freedom  for 
easy  gallantry,  but  no  sign  of  discomfiture  or  uneasiness 
was  visible  in  the  grateful  faces  of  the  young  men.  The 
necessity  of  changing  hands  at  times  with  their  burdens 
brought  a  corresponding  change  of  cavalier  at  the  lady's 
side,  although  it  was  observed  that  the  younger  Kearney, 
for  the  sake  of  continuing  a  conversation  with  Miss 
Jessie,  kept  his  grasp  of  the  handle  nearest  the  young 
lady  until  his  hand  was  nearly  cut  through,  and  his  arm 
worn  out  by  exhaustion. 

"The  only  thing  on  wheels  in  the  camp  is  a  mule 
wagon,  and  the  mules  are  packin'  gravel  from  the  river 
this  afternoon,"  explained  Dick  Mattingly  apologetically 
to  Christie,  "or  we'd  have  toted — I  mean  carried — you 
and  your  baggage  up  to  the  shant — the — your  house. 
Give  us  two  weeks  more,  Miss  Carr — only  two  weeks 
to  wash  up  our  work  and  realize — and  we'll  give  you  a 
pair  of  2.40  steppers  and  a  skeleton  buggy  to  meet  you 
at  the  top  of  the  hill  and  drive  you  over  to  the  cabin. 
Perhaps  you'd  prefer  a  regular  carriage ;  some  ladies 
do.  And  a  nigger  driver.  But  what's  the  use  of  plan 
ning  anything?  Afore  that  time  comes  we'll  have  run 
you  up  a  house  on  the  hill,  and  you  shall  pick  out  the 


92  DEVIL'S    FORD 

spot.  It  wouldn't  take  long — unless  you  preferred  brick. 
I  suppose  we  could  get  brick  over  from  La  Grange,  if 
you  cared  for  it,  but  it  would  take  longer.  If  you  could 
put  up  for  a  time  with  something  of  stained  glass  and  a 
mahogany  veranda — " 

In  spite  of  her  cold  indignation,  and  the  fact  that  she 
could  understand  only  a  part  of  Mattingly's  speech, 
Christie  comprehended  enough  to  make  her  lift  her  clear 
eyes  to  the  speaker,  as  she  replied  freezingly  that  she 
feared  she  would  not  trouble  them  long  with  her  com 
pany. 

"Oh,  you'll  get  over  that,"  responded  Mattingly,  with 
an  exasperating  confidence  that  drove  her  nearly  frantic, 
from  the  manifest  kindliness  of  intent  that  made  it  im 
possible  for  her  to  resent  it.  "I  felt  that  way  myself  at 
first.  Things  will  look  strange  and  unsociable  for  a 
while,  until  you  get  the  hang  of  them.  You'll  naturally 
stamp  round  and  cuss  a  little — "  He  stopped  in  conscious 
consternation. 

With  ready  tact,  and  before  Christie  could  reply,  Mary 
land  Joe  had  put  down  the  trunk  and  changed  hands 
with  his  brother. 

"You  musn't  mind  Dick,  or  he'll  go  off  and  kill  him 
self  with  shame,"  he  whispered  laughingly  in  her  ear. 
"He  means  all  right,  but  he's  picked  up  so  much  slang 
here  that  he's  about  forgotten  how  to  talk  English, 
and  it's  nigh  on  to  four  years  since  he's  met  a  young 
lady." 

Christie  did  not  reply.  Yet  the  laughter  of  her  sister 
in  advance  with  the  Kearney  brothers  seemed  to  make 
the  reserve  with  which  she  tried  to  crush  further  famil 
iarity  only  ridiculous. 

"Do  you  know  many  operas,  Miss  Carr?" 

She  looked  at  the  boyish,  interested,  sunburnt  face 
so  near  to  her  own,  and  hesitated.  After  all,  why 
should  she  add  to  her  other  real  disappointments  by 
taking  this  absurd  creature  seriously? 

"In  what  way?"  she  returned,  with  a  half  smile. 

"To  play.  On  the  piano,  of  course.  There  isn't  one 
nearer  here  than  Sacramento ;  but  I  reckon  we  could  get 


DEVIL'S    FOKD  93 

a  small  one  by  Thursday.  You  couldn't  do  anything  on 
a  banjo?"  he  added  doubtfully;  "Kearney's  got  one." 

"I  imagine  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  carry  a  piano 
over  those  mountains,"  said  Christie  laughingly,  to  avoid 
the  collateral  of  the  banjo. 

"We  got  a  billiard-table  over  from  Stockton,"  half 
bashfully  interrupted  Dick  Mattingly,  struggling  from 
his  end  of  the  trunk  to  recover  his  composure,  "and  it 
had  to  be  brought  over  in  sections  on  the  back  of  a  mule, 
so  I  don't  see  why — "  He  stopped  short  again  in  confu 
sion,  at  a  sign  from  his  brother,  and  then  added,  "I 
mean,  of  course,  that  a  piano  is  a  heap  more  delicate, 
and  valuable,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  it's  worth 
trying  for." 

"Fairfax  was  always  saying  he'd  get  one  for  himself, 
so  I  reckon  it's  possible,"  said  Joe. 

"Does  he  play?"  asked  Christie. 

"You  bet,"  said  Joe,  quite  forgetting  himself  in  his 
enthusiasm.  "He  can  snatch  Mozart  and  Beethoven 
bald-headed." 

In  the  embarrassing  silence  that  followed  this  speech 
the  fringe  of  pine  wood  nearest  the  flat  was  reached. 
Here  there  was  a  rude  "clearing,"  and  beneath  an  enor 
mous  pine  stood  the  two  recently  joined  tenements. 
There  was  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  point  of  junction 
between  Kearney's  cabin  and  the  newly-transported  sa 
loon  from  the  flat — no  architectural  illusion  of  the  pal 
pable  collusion  of  the  two  buildings,  which  seemed  to 
be  telescoped  into  each  other.  The  front  room  or  living 
room  occupied  the  whole  of  Kearney's  cabin.  It  con 
tained,  in  addition  to  the  necessary  articles  for  house 
keeping,  a  "bunk"  or  berth  for  Mr.  Carr,  so  as  to  leave 
the  second  building  entirely  to  the  occupation  of  his 
daughters  as  bedroom  and  boudoir. 

There  was  a  half-humorous,  half-apologetic  exhibition 
of  the  rude  utensils  of  the  living  room,  and  then  the 
young  men  turned  away  as  the  two  girls  entered  the  open 
door  of  the  second  room.  Neither  Christie  nor  Jessie 
could  for  a  moment  understand  the  delicacy  which  kept 
these  young  men  from  accompanying  them  into  the  room 


94  DEVIL'S    FORD 

they  had  but  a  few  moments  before  decorated  and  ar 
ranged  with  their  own  hands,  and  it  was  not  until  they 
turned  to  thank  their  strange  entertainers  that  they 
found  that  they  were  gone. 

The  arrangement  of  the  second  room  was  rude  and 
bizarre,  but  not  without  a  singular  originality  and  even 
tastefulness  of  conception.  What  had  been  the  counter 
or  "bar"  of  the  saloon,  gorgeous  in  white  and  gold,  now 
sawn  in  two  and  divided,  was  set  up  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  room  as  separate  dressing-tables,  decorated  with 
huge  bunches  of  azaleas,  that  hid  the  rough  earthenware 
bowls,  and  gave  each  table  the  appearance  of  a  vestal 
altar. 

The  huge  gilt  plate-glass  mirror  which  had  hung  be 
hind  the  bar  still  occupied  one  side  of  the  room,  but  its 
length  was  artfully  divided  by  an  enormous  rosette  of 
red,  white,  and  blue  muslin— one  of  the  surviving  Fourth 
of  July  decorations  of  Thompson's  saloon.  On  either 
side  of  the  door  two  pathetic-looking,  convent-like  cots, 
covered  with  spotless  sheeting,  and  heaped  up  in  the 
middle,  like  a  snow-covered  grave,  had  attracted  their 
attention.  They  were  still  staring  at  them  when  Mr. 
Carr  anticipated  their  curiosity. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you  that  the  young  men  confided  to  me 
the  fact  that  there  was  neither  bed  nor  mattress  to  be 
had  on  the  Ford.  They  have  filled  some  flour  sacks  with 
clean  dry  moss  from  the  woods,  and  put  half  a  dozen 
blankets  on  the  top,  and  they  hope  you  can  get  along 
until  the  messenger  who  starts  to-night  for  La  Grange 
can  bring  some  bedding  over." 

Jessie  flew  with  mischievous  delight  to  satisfy  herself 
of  the  truth  of  this  marvel.  "It's  so,  Christie,"  she  said 
laughingly — "three  flour-sacks  apiece;  but  I'm  jealous: 
yours  are  all  marked  'superfine,'  and  mine  'middlings.'" 

Mr.  Carr  had  remained  uneasily  watching  Christie's 
shadowed  face. 

"What  matters?"  she  said  drily.  "The  accommoda 
tion  is  all  in  keeping." 

"It  will  be  better  in  a  day  or  two,"  he  continued, 
casting  a  longing  look  towards  the  door — the  first  refuge 


DEVIL'S    FORD  95 

of  masculine  weakness  in  an  impending  domestic  emer 
gency.  "I'll  go  and  see  what  can  be  done,"  he  said 
feebly,  with  a  sidelong  impulse  towards  the  opening  and 
freedom.  "I've  got  to  see  Fairfax  again  to-night  any 
way." 

"One  moment,  father,"  said  Christie,  wearily.  "Did 
you  know  anything  of  this  place  and  these — these  people 
— before  you  came?" 

"Certainly — of  course  I  did,"  he  returned,  with  the 
sudden  testiness  of  disturbed  abstraction.  "What  are 
you  thinking  of?  I  knew  the  geological  strata  and  the — 
the  report  of  Fairfax  and  his  partners  before  I  consented 
to  take  charge  of  the  works.  And  I  can  tell  you  that 
there  is  a  fortune  here.  I  intend  to  make  my  own  terms, 
and  share  in  it." 

"And  not  take  a  salary  or  some  sum  of  money  down?" 
said  Christie,  slowly  removing  her  bonnet  in  the  same 
resigned  way. 

"I  am  not  a  hired  man,  or  a  workman,  Christie,"  said 
her  father  sharply.  "You  ought  not  to  oblige  me  to  re 
mind  you  of  that." 

"But  the  hired  men — the  superintendent  and  his  work 
men — were  the  only  ones  who  ever  got  anything  out  of 
your  last  experience  with  Colonel  Waters  at  La  Grange, 
and — and  we  at  least  lived  among  civilized  people 
there." 

"These  young  men  are  not  common  people,  Christie; 
even  if  they  have  forgotten  the  restraints  of  speech  and 
manners,  they're  gentlemen." 

"Who  are  willing  to  live  like — like  negroes." 

"You  can  make  them  what  you  please." 

Christie  raised  her  eyes.  There  was  a  certain  cynical 
ring  in  her  father's  voice  that  was  unlike  his  usual  hesi 
tating  abstraction.  It  both  puzzled  and  pained  her. 

"I  mean,"  he  said  hastily,  "that  you  have  the  same  op 
portunity  to  direct  the  lives  of  these  young  men  into 
more  regular,  disciplined  channels  that  I  have  to  regulate 
and  correct  their  foolish  waste  of  industry  and  material 
here.  It  would  at  least  beguile  the  time  for  you." 

Fortunately  for  Mr.  Carr's  escape  and  Christie's  un- 


96  DEVIL'S    FORD 

easiness,  Jessie,  who  had  been  examining  the  details  of 
the  living-room,  broke  in  upon  this  conversation. 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  as  good  as  a  perpetual  picnic. 
George  Kearney  says  we  can  have  a  cooking-stove  under 
the  tree  outside  at  the  back,  and  as  there  will  be  no  rain 
for  three  months  we  can  do  the  cooking  there,  and  that 
will  give  us  more  room  for — for  the  piano  when  it 
comes;  and  there's  an  old  squaw  to  do  the  cleaning  and 
washing-up  any  day — and — and — it  will  be  real  fun." 

She  stopped  breathlessly,  with  glowing  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes — a  charming  picture  of  youth  and  trust 
fulness.  Mr.  Carr  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  escape. 

"Really,  now,  Christie,"  said  Jessie  confidentially, 
when  they  were  alone,  and  Christie  had  begun  to  un 
pack  her  trunk,  and  to  mechanically  put  her  things  away, 
"they're  not  so  bad." 

"Who?"  asked  Christie. 

"Why,  the  Kearneys,  and  Mattinglys,  and  Fairfax, 
and  the  lot,  provided  you  don't  look  at  their  clothes. 
And  think  of  it !  they  told  me — for  they  tell  one  every 
thing  in  the  most  alarming  way — that  those  clothes  were 
bought  to  please  us.  A  scramble  of  things  bought  at 
La  Grange,  without  reference  to  size  or  style.  And  to 
hear  these  creatures  talk,  why,  you'd  think  they  were 
Astors  or  Rothschilds.  Think  of  that  little  one  with  the 
curls — I  don't  believe  he  is  over  seventeen,  for  all  his 
baby  moustache — says  he's  going  to  build  an  assembly 
hall  for  us  to  give  a  dance  in  next  month;  and  apolo 
gizes  the  next  breath  to  tell  us  that  there  isn't  any  milk 
to  be  had  nearer  than  La  Grange,  and  we  must  do  with 
out  it,  and  use  syrup  in  our  tea  to-morrow." 

"And  where  is  all  this  wealth?"  said  Christie,  forcing 
herself  to  smile  at  her  sister's  animation. 

"Under  our  very  feet,  my  child,  and  all  along  the 
river.  Why,  what  we  thought  was  pure  and  simple  mud 
is  what  they  call  'gold-bearing  cement.'  " 

"I  suppose  that  is  why  they  don't  brush  their  boots 
and  trousers,  it's  so  precious,"  returned  Christie  drily. 
"And  have  they  ever  translated  this  precious  dirt  into 
actual  coin?" 


DEVIL'S    FORD  97 

"Bless  you,  yes.  Why,  that  dirty  little  gutter,  you 
know,  that  ran  along  the  side  of  the  road  and  followed 
us  down  the  hill  all  the  way  here,  that  cost  them — let 
me  see — yes,  nearly  sixty  thousand  dollars.  And  fancy ! 
papa's  just  condemned  it — says  it  won't  do;  and  they've 
got  to  build  another." 

An  impatient  sigh  from  Christie  drew  Jessie's  atten 
tion  to  her  troubled  eyebrows. 

"Don't  worry  about  our  disappointment,  dear.  It  isn't 
so  very  great.  I  dare  say  we'll  be  able  to  get  along  here 
in  some  way,  until  papa  is  rich  again.  You  know  they 
intend  to  make  him  share  with  them." 

"It  strikes  me  that  he  is  sharing  with  them  already," 
said  Christie,  glancing  bitterly  round  the  cabin;  "sharing 
everything — ourselves,  our  lives,  our  tastes." 

"Ye-e-s  I"  said  Jessie,  with  vaguely  hesitating  assent. 
"Yes,  even  these:"  she  showed  two  dice  in  the  palm  of 
her  little  hand.  "I  found  'em  in  the  drawer  of  our 
dressing-table." 

"Throw  them  away,"  said  Christie  impatiently. 

But  Jessie's  small  fingers  closed  over  the  dice.  I'll 
give  them  to  the  little  Kearney.  I  dare  say  they  were 
the  poor  boy's  playthings." 

The  appearance  of  these  relics  of  wild  dissipation, 
however,  had  lifted  Christie  out  of  her  sublime  resigna 
tion.  "For  Heaven's  sake,  Jessie,"  she  said,  "look  around 
and  see  if  there  is  anything  more !" 

To  make  sure,  they  each  began  to  scrimmage;  the 
broken-spirited  Christie  exhibiting  both  alacrity  and  pene 
tration  in  searching  obscure  corners.  In  the  dining-room, 
behind  the  dresser,  three  or  four  books  were  discovered : 
an  odd  volume  of  Thackeray,  another  of  Dickens,  a 
memorandum-book  or  diary.  "This  seems  to  be  Latin," 
said  Jessie,  fishing  out  a  smaller  book.  "I  can't 
read  it." 

"It's  just  as  well  you  shouldn't,"  said  Christie  shortly, 
whose  ideas  of  a  general  classical  impropriety  had  been 
gathered  from  pages  of  Lempriere's  dictionary.  "Put 
it  back  directly." 

Jessie  returned  certain  odes  of  one  Horatius  Flaccus 
4  VOL.  2 


98  DEVIL'S    FORD 

to  the  corner,  and  uttered  an  exclamation.  "Oh, 
Christie !  here  are  some  letters  tied  up  with  a  ribbon." 

They  were  two  or  three  prettily  written  letters,  exhal 
ing  a  faint  odor  of  refinement  and  of  the  pressed  flowers 
that  peeped  from  between  the  loose  leaves.  "I  see,  'My 
darling  Fairfax.'  It's  from  some  woman." 

"I  don't  think  much  of  her,  whosoever  she  is,"  said 
Christie,  tossing  the  intact  packet  back  into  the  corner. 

"Nor  I,"  echoed  Jessie. 

Nevertheless,  by  some  feminine  inconsistency,  evidently 
the  circumstance  did  make  them  think  more  of  him,  for 
a  minute  later,  when  they  had  reentered  their  own  room, 
Christie  remarked,  "The  idea  of  petting  a  man  by  his 
family  name !  Think  of  mamma  ever  having  called  papa 
'darling  Carr' !" 

"Oh,  but  his  family  name  isn't  Fairfax,"  said  Jessie 
hastily;  "that's  his  first  name,  his  Christian  name.  I 
forget  what's  his  other  name,  but  nobody  ever  calls  him 
by  it." 

"Do  you  mean,"  said  Christie,  with  glistening  eyes 
and  awful  deliberation — "do  you  mean  to  say  that  we're 
expected  to  fall  in  with  this  insufferable  familiarity?  I 
suppose  they'll  be  calling  us  by  our  Christian  names 
next." 

"Oh,  but  they  do !"  said  Jessie,  mischievously. 

"What !" 

"They  call  me  Miss  Jessie;  and  Kearney,  the  little 
one,  asked  me  if  Christie  played." 

"And  what  did  you  say?*' 

"I  said  that  you  did,"  answered  Jessie,  with  an  affec 
tation  of  cherubic  simplicity.  "You  do,  dear;  don't 
you?  .  .  .  There,  don't  get  angry,  darling;  I  couldn't 
flare  up  all  of  a  sudden  in  the  face  of  that  poor  little 
creature;  he  looked  so  absurd — and  so — so  honest." 

Christie  turned  away,  relapsing  into  her  old  resigned 
manner,  and  assuming  her  household  duties  in  a  quiet, 
temporizing  way  that  was,  however,  without  hope  or 
expectation. 

Mr.  Carr,  who  had  dined  with  his  friends  under  the 
excuse  of  not  adding  to  the  awkwardness  of  the  first 


DEVIL'S    FORD  99 

day's  housekeeping  returned  late  at  night  with  a  mass 
of  papers  and  drawings,  into  which  he  afterwards  with 
drew,  but  not  until  he  had  delivered  himself  of  a  myste 
rious  package  entrusted  to  him  by  the  young  men  for 
his  daughters.  It  contained  a  contribution  to  their  board 
in  the  shape  of  a  silver  spoon  and  battered  silver  mug, 
which  Jessie  chose  to  facetiously  consider  as  an  affect 
ing  reminiscence  of  the  youthful  Kearney's  christening 
days — which  it  probably  was. 

The  young  girls  retired  early  to  their  white  snow 
drifts  :  Jessie  not  without  some  hilarious  struggles  with 
hers,  in  which  she  was,  however,  quickly  surprised  by 
the  deep  and  refreshing  sleep  of  youth;  Christie  to  lie 
awake  and  listen  to  the  night  wind,  that  had  changed 
from  the  first  cool  whispers  of  sunset  to  the  sturdy 
breath  of  the  mountain.  At  times  the  frail  house  shook 
and  trembled.  Wandering  gusts  laden  with  the  deep 
resinous  odors  of  the  wood  found  their  way  through 
the  imperfect  jointure  of  the  two  cabins,  swept  her 
cheek  and  even  stirred  her  long,  wide-open  lashes.  A 
broken  spray  of  pine  needles  rustled  along  the  roof, 
or  a  pine  cone  dropped  with  a  quick  reverberating  tap- 
tap  that  for  an  instant  startled  her.  Lying  thus,  wide 
awake,  she  fell  into  a  dreamy  reminiscence  of  the  past, 
hearing  snatches  of  old  melody  in  the  moving  pines,  frag 
ments  of  sentences,  old  words,  and  familiar  epithets  in  the 
murmuring  wind  at  her  ear,  and  even  the  faint  breath  of 
long-forgotten  kisses  on  her  cheek.  She  remembered 
her  mother — a  pallid  creature,  who  had  slowly  faded 
out  of  one  of  her  father's  vague  speculations  in  a  vaguer 
speculation  of  her  own,  beyond  his  ken — whose  place 
she  had  promised  to  take  at  her  father's  side.  The 
words,  "Watch  over  him,  Christie ;  he  needs  a  woman's 
care,"  again  echoed  in  her  ears,  as  if  borne  on  the  night 
wind  from  the  lonely  grave  in  the  lonelier  cemetery  by 
the  distant  sea.  She  had  devoted  herself  to  him  with 
some  little  sacrifices  of  self,  only  remembered  now  for 
their  uselessness  in  saving  her  father  the  disappointment 
that  sprang  from  his  sanguine  and  one-idea'd  tempera 
ment.  She  thought  of  him  lying  asleep  in  the  other 


100  DEVIL'S    FORD 

room,  ready  on  the  morrow  to  devote  those  fateful  quali 
ties  to  the  new  enterprise  that  with  equally  fateful  dispo 
sition  she  believed  would  end  in  failure.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  the  doubts  of  her  own  practical  nature 
were  almost  as  dangerous  and  illogical  as  his  enthusiasm, 
and  that  for  that  reason  she  was  fast  losing  what  little 
influence  she  possessed  over  him.  With  the  example  of 
her  mother's  weakness  before  her  eyes,  she  had  become 
an  unsparing  and  distrustful  critic,  with  the  sole  effect 
of  awakening  his  distrust  and  withdrawing  his  confidence 
from  her. 

He  was  beginning  to  deceive  her  as  he  had  never 
deceived  her  mother.  Even  Jessie  knew  more  of  this  last 
enterprise  than  she  did  herself. 

All  that  did  not  tend  to  decrease  her  utter  restlessness. 
It  was  already  past  midnight  when  she  noticed  that  the 
wind  had  again  abated.  The  mountain  breeze  had  by 
this  time  possessed  the  stifling  valleys  and  heated  bars 
of  the  river  in  its  strong,  cold  embraces;  the  equilibrium 
of  Nature  was  restored,  and  a  shadowy  mist  rose  from 
the  hollow.  A  stillness,  more  oppressive  and  intolerable 
than  the  previous  commotion,  began  to  pervade  the  house 
and  the  surrounding  woods.  She  could  hear  the  regular 
breathing  of  the  sleepers ;  she  even  fancied  she  could 
detect  the  faint  impulses  of  the  more  distant  life  in  the 
settlement.  The  far-off  barking  of  a  dog,  a  lost  shout, 
the  indistinct  murmur  of  some  nearer  watercourse — mere 
phantoms  of  sound — made  the  silence  more  irritating. 
With  a  sudden  resolution  she  arose,  dressed  herself 
quietly  and  completely,  threw  a  heavy  cloak  over  her 
head  and  shoulders,  and  opened  the  door  between  the 
living-room  and  her  own.  Her  father  was  sleeping 
soundly  in  his  bunk  in  the  corner.  She  passed  noise 
lessly  through  the  room,  opened  the  lightly  fastened 
door,  and  stepped  out  into  the  night. 

In  the  irritation  and  disgust  of  her  walk  hither,  she 
had  never  noticed  the  situation  of  the  cabin,  as  it 
nestled  on  the  slope  at  the  fringe  of  the  woods;  in  the 
preoccupation  of  her  disappointment  and  the  mechani 
cal  putting  away  of  her  things,  she  had  never  looked 


DEVIL'S    FORD  101 

once  from  the  window  of  her  room,  or  glanced  backward 
out  of  the  door  that  she  had  entered.  The  view  before 
her  was  a  revelation — a  reproach,  a  surprise  that  took 
away  her  breath.  Over  her  shoulders  the  newly  risen 
moon  poured  a  flood  of  silvery  light,  stretching  from  her 
feet  across  the  shining  bars  of  the  river  to  the  opposite 
bank,  and  on  up  to  the  very  crest  of  the  Devil's  Spur — 
no  longer  a  huge  bulk  of  crushing  shadow,  but  the 
steady  exaltation  of  plateau,  spur,  and  terrace  clothed 
with  replete  and  unutterable  beauty.  In  this  magical 
light  that  beauty  seemed  to  be  sustained  and  carried 
along  by  the  river  winding  at  its  base,  lifted  again  to 
the  broad  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  and  lost  only  in 
the  distant  vista  of  death-like,  overcrowning  snow.  Be 
hind  and  above  where  she  stood  the  towering  woods 
seemed  to  be  waiting  with  opened  ranks  to  absorb  her 
with  the  little  cabin  she  had  quitted,  dwarfed  into  insig 
nificance  in  the  vast  prospect ;  but  nowhere  was  there  an 
other  sign  or  indication  of  human  life  and  habitation. 
She  looked  in  vain  for  the  settlement,  for  the  rugged 
ditches,  the  scattered  cabins,  and  the  unsightly  heaps  of 
gravel.  In  the  glamour  of  the  moonlight  they  had  van 
ished;  a  veil  of  silver-gray  vapor  touched  here  and  there 
with  ebony  shadows  masked  its  site.  A  black  strip  be 
yond  was  the  river  bank.  All  else  was  changed.  With 
a  sudden  sense  of  awe  and  loneliness  she  turned  to  the 
cabin  and  its  sleeping  inmates — all  that  seemed  left  to 
her  in  the  vast  and  stupendous  domination  of  rock  and 
wood  and  sky. 

But  in  another  moment  the  loneliness  passed.  A  new 
and  delicious  sense  of  an  infinite  hospitality  and  friendli 
ness  in  their  silent  presence  began  to  possess  her.  This 
same  slighted,  forgotten,  uncomprehended,  but  still  fool 
ish  and  forgiving  Nature  seemed  to  be  bending  over  her 
frightened  and  listening  ear  with  vague  but  thrilling 
murmurings  of  freedom  and  independence.  She  felt  her 
heart  expand  with  its  wholesome  breath,  her  soul  fill 
with  its  sustaining  truth. 

She  felt— 

What  was  that? 


102  DEVIL'S    FORD 

An  unmistakable  outburst  of  a  drunken  song  at  the 
foot  of  the  slope : — 

"  Oh,  my  name  it  is  Johnny  from  Pike, 
I'm  h — 11  on  a  spree  or  a  strike  "... 

She  stopped  as  crimson  with  shame  and  indignation 
as  if  the  viewless  singer  had  risen  before  her. 

"  I  knew  when  to  bet,  and  get  up  and  get — " 

"Hush !    D— n  it  all.    Don't  you  hear  ?" 

There  was  the  sound  of  hurried  whispers,  a  "No"  and 
"Yes,"  and  then  a  dead  silence. 

Christie  crept  nearer  to  the  edge  of  the  slope  in  the 
shadow  of  a  buckeye.  In  the  clearer  view  she  could 
distinguish  a  staggering  figure  in  the  trail  below  who 
had  evidently  been  stopped  by  two  other  expostulating 
shadows  that  were  approaching  from  the  shelter  of  a 
tree. 

"Sho !— didn't  know  !" 

The  staggering  figure  endeavored  to  straighten  itself, 
and  then  slouched  away  in  the  direction  of  the  settle 
ment.  The  two  mysterious  shadows  retreated  again  to 
the  tree,  and  were  lost  in  its  deeper  shadow.  Christie 
darted  back  to  the  cabin,  and  softly  reentered  her  room. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  noise  that  woke  me,  and  I  missed 
you,"  said  Jessie,  rubbing  her  eyes.  "Did  you  see  any 
thing?" 

"No,"  said  Christie,  beginning  to  undress. 

"You  weren't  frightened,  dear?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Christie,  with  a  strange  little 
laugh.  "Go  to  sleep." 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  five  impulsive  millionaires  of  Devil's  Ford  ful 
filled  not  a  few  of  their  most  extravagant  promises.  In 
less  than  six  weeks  Mr.  Carr  and  his  daughters  were  in 
stalled  in  a  new  house,  built  near  the  site  of  the  double 
cabin,  which  was  again  transferred  to  the  settlement,  in 


DEVIL'S    FORD  103 

order  to  give  greater  seclusion  to  the  fair  guests.  It  was 
a  long,  roomy,  one-storied  villa,  with  a  not  unpicturesque 
combination  of  deep  veranda  and  trellis  work,  which  re 
lieved  the  flat  monotony  of  the  interior  and  the  barrenness 
of  the  freshly-cleared  ground.  An  upright  piano,  brought 
from  Sacramento,  occupied  the  corner  of  the  parlor.  A 
suite  of  gorgeous  furniture,  whose  pronounced  and  ex 
travagant  glories  the  young  girls  instinctively  hid  under 
home-made  linen  covers,  had  also  been  spoils  from  afar. 
Elsewhere  the  house  was  filled  with  ornaments  and  deco 
rations  that  in  their  incongruity  forcibly  recalled  the 
gilded  plate-glass  mirrors  of  the  bedroom  in  the  old 
cabin.  In  the  hasty  furnishing  of  this  Aladdin's  palace, 
the  slaves  of  the  ring  had  evidently  seized  upon  anything 
that  would  add  to  its  glory,  without  reference  always  to 
fitness. 

"I  wish  it  didn't  look  so  cussedly  like  a  robber's  cave," 
said  George  Kearney,  when  they  were  taking  a  quiet  pre 
liminary  survey  of  the  unclassified  treasures,  before  the 
Carrs  took  possession. 

"Or  a  gambling  hell,"  said  his  brother  reflectively. 

"It's  about  the  same  thing,  I  reckon,"  said  Dick  Mat- 
tingly,  who  was  supposed,  in  his  fiery  youth,  to  have 
encountered  the  similarity. 

Nevertheless,  the  two  girls  managed  to  bestow  the 
heterogeneous  collection  with  tasteful  adaptation  to  their 
needs.  A  crystal  chandelier,  which  had  once  lent  a  fasci 
nating  illusion  to  the  game  of  Monte,  hung  unlighted  in 
the  broad  hall,  where  a  few  other  bizarre  and  public  ar 
ticles  were  relegated.  A  long  red  sofa  or  bench,  which 
had  done  duty  beside  a  billiard-table  found  a  place  here 
also.  Indeed,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  some  of  the  more 
rustic  and  bashful  youths  of  Devil's  Ford,  who  had  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  them  to  pay  their  respects  to  the 
new-comers,  were  more  at  ease  in  this  vestibule  than  in 
the  arcana  beyond,  whose  glories  they  could  see  through 
the  open  door.  To  others,  it  represented  a  recognized 
state  of  probation  before  their  re-entree  into  civilization 
again.  "I  reckon,  if  you  don't  mind,  miss,"  said  the 
spokesman  of  one  party,  "ez  this  is  our  first  call,  we'll 


104  DEVIL'S    FORD 

sorter  hang  out  in  the  hall  yer,  until  you'r  used  to  us." 
On  another  occasion,  one  Whiskey  Dick,  impelled  by  a 
sense  of  duty,  paid  a  visit  to  the  new  house  and  its  fair 
occupants,  in  a  fashion  frankly  recounted  by  him  after 
wards  at  the  bar  of  the  Tecumseh  Saloon. 

"You  see,  boys,  I  dropped  in  there  the  other  night, 
when  some  of  you  fellers  was  doin'  the  high-toned 
'thankee,  marm'  business  in  the  parlor.  I  just  came  to 
anchor  in  the  corner  of  the  sofy  in  the  hall,  without 
lettin'  on  to  say  that  I  was  there,  and  took  up  a  Webster's 
dictionary  that  was  on  the  table  and  laid  it  open — keerless 
like,  on  my  knees,  ez  if  I  was  sorter  consultin'  it — and 
kinder  dozed  off  there,  listenin'  to  you  fellows  gassin' 
with  the  young  ladies,  and  that  yer  Miss  Christie  just 
snakin'  music  outer  that  pianner,  and  I  reckon  I  fell 
asleep.  Anyhow,  I  was  there  nigh  on  to  two  hours. 
It's  mighty  soothin',  them  fashionable  calls ;  sorter  knocks 
the  old  camp  dust  outer  a  fellow,  and  sets  him  up  again." 

It  would  have  been  well  if  the  new  life  of  the  Devil's 
Ford  had  shown  no  other  irregularity  than  the  harmless 
eccentricities  of  its  original  locaters.  But  the  news  of 
its  sudden  fortune,  magnified  by  report,  began  presently 
to  flood  the  settlement  with  another  class  of  adventurers. 
A  tide  of  waifs,  strays,  and  malcontents  of  old  camps 
along  the  river  began  to  set  towards  Devil's  Ford,  in  very 
much  the  same  fashion  as  the  debris,  drift,  and  alluvium 
had  been  carried  down  in  bygone  days  and  cast  upon  its 
banks.  A  few  immigrant  wagons,  diverted  from  the 
highways  of  travel  by  the  fame  of  the  new  diggings, 
halted  upon  the  slopes  of  Devil's  Spur  and  on  the  arid 
flats  of  the  Ford,  and  disgorged  their  sallow  freight  of 
alkali-poisoned,  prematurely-aged  women  and  children 
and  maimed  and  fever-stricken  men.  Against  this  rude 
form  of  domesticity  were  opposed  the  chromo-tinted 
dresses  and  extravagant  complexions  of  a  few  single  un 
attended  women — happily  seen  more  often  at  night  be 
hind  gilded  bars  than  in  the  garish  light  of  day — and  an 
equal  number  of  pale-faced,  dark-moustached,  well- 
dressed,  and  suspiciously  idle  men.  A  dozen  rivals  of 
Thompson's  Saloon  had  sprung  up  along  the  narrow 


DEVIL'S    FORD  105 

main  street.  There  were  two  new  hotels — one  a  "Tem 
perance  House,"  whose  ascetic  quality  was  confined  only 
to  the  abnegation  of  whiskey — a  rival  stage  office,  and  a 
small  one-storied  building,  from  which  the  "Sierran  Ban 
ner"  fluttered  weekly,  for  "ten  dollars  a  year,  in  advance." 
Insufferable  in  the  glare  of  a  Sabbath  sun,  bleak,  windy,, 
and  flaring  in  the  gloom  of  a  Sabbath  night,  and  hope 
lessly  depressing  on  all  days  of  the  week,  the  First  Presby 
terian  Church  lifted  its  blunt  steeple  from  the  barrenest 
area  of  the  flats,  and  was  hideous !  The  civic  improve 
ments  so  enthusiastically  contemplated  by  the  five  million 
aires  in  the  earlier  pages  of  this  veracious  chronicle — 
the  fountain,  reservoir,  town-hall,  and  free  library — had 
not  yet  been  erected.  Their  sites  had  been  anticipated  by 
more  urgent  buildings  and  mining  works,  unfortunately 
not  considered  in  the  sanguine  dreams  of  the  enthusiasts, 
and,  more  significant  still,  their  cost  and  expense  had 
been  also  anticipated  by  the  enormous  outlay  of  their 
earnings  in  the  work  upon  Devil's  Ditch. 

Nevertheless,  the  liberal  fulfilment  of  their  promise 
in  the  new  house  in  the  suburbs  blinded  the  young  girls' 
eyes  to  their  shortcomings  in  the  town.  Their  own  re 
moteness  and  elevation  above  its  feverish  life  kept  them 
from  the  knowledge  of  much  that  was  strange,  and  per 
haps  disturbing  to  their  equanimity.  As  they  did  not 
mix  with  the  immigrant  women — Miss  Jessie's  good- 
natured  intrusion  into  one  of  their  half-nomadic  camps 
one  day  having  been  met  with  rudeness  and  suspicion — 
they  gradually  fell  into  the  way  of  trusting  the  responsi 
bility  of  new  acquaintances  to  the  hands  of  their  original 
hosts,  and  of  consulting  them  in  the  matter  of  local 
recreation.  It  thus  occurred  that  one  day  the  two  girls, 
on  their  way  to  the  main  street  for  an  hour's  shopping  at 
the  Villa  de  Paris  and  Variety  Store,  were  stopped  by 
Dick  Mattingly  a  few  yards  from  their  house,  with  the 
remark  that,  as  the  county  election  was  then  in  progress, 
it  would  be  advisable  for  them  to  defer  their  intention 
for  a  few  hours.  As  he  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to 
add  that  two  citizens,  in  the  exercise  of  a  freeman's 
franchise,  had  been  supplementing  their  ballots  with  bul- 


106  DEVIL'S    FORD 

lets,  in  front  of  an  admiring  crowd,  they  knew  nothing 
of  that  accident  that  removed  from  Devil's  Ford  an  enter 
taining  stranger,  who  had  only  the  night  before  partaken 
of  their  hospitality. 

A  week  or  two  later,  returning  one  morning  from  a 
stroll  in  the  forest,  Christie  and  Jessie  were  waylaid  by 
George  Kearney  and  Fairfax,  and,  under  pretext  of  being 
shown  a  new  and  romantic  trail,  were  diverted  from  the 
regular  path.  This  enabled  Mattingly  and  Maryland  Joe 
to  cut  down  the  body  of  a  man  hanged  by  the  Vigilance 
Committee  a  few  hours  before  on  the  regular  trail,  and 
to  remonstrate  with  the  committee  on  the  incompatibility 
of  such  exhibitions  with  a  maidenly  worship  of  nature. 

"With  the  whole  county  to  hang  a  man  in,"  expostu 
lated  Joe,  "you  might  keep  clear  of  Carr's  woods." 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  the  young  girls  never  knew 
of  this  act  of  violence,  or  the  delicacy  that  kept  them  in 
ignorance  of  it.  Mr.  Carr  was  too  absorbed  in  business 
to  give  heed  to  what  he  looked  upon  as  a  convulsion  of 
society  as  natural  as  a  geological  upheaval,  and  too  pru 
dent  to  provoke  the  criticism  of  his  daughters  by  comment 
in  their  presence. 

An  equally  unexpected  confidence,  however,  took  its 
place.  Mr.  Carr  having  finished  his  coffee  one  morning, 
lingered  a  moment'  over  his  perfunctory  paternal  em 
braces,  with  the  awkwardness  of  a  preoccupied  man  en 
deavoring  by  the  assumption  of  a  lighter  interest  to  veil 
another  abstraction. 

"And  what  are  we  doing  to-day,  Christie?"  he  asked, 
as  Jessie  left  the  dining-room. 

"Oh,  pretty  much  the  usual  thing — nothing  in  par 
ticular.  .  If  George  Kearney  gets  the  horses  from  the 
summit,  we're  going  to  ride  over  to  Indian  Spring  to 
picnic.  Fairfax — Mr.  Munroe — I  always  forget  that 
man's  real  name  in  this  dreadfully  familiar  country — 
well,  he's  coming  to  escort  us,  and  take  me,  I  suppose — 
that  is,  if  Kearney  takes  Jessie." 

"A  very  nice  arrangement,"  returned  her  father,  with 
a  slight  nervous  contraction  of  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
and  eyelids  to  indicate  mischievousness.  "I've  no  doubt 


DEVIL'S    FORD  107 

they'll  both  be  here.  You  know  they  usually  are — ha! 
ha!  And  what  about  the  two  Mattinglys  and  Philip 
Kearney,  eh?"  he  continued;  "won't  they  be  jealous?" 

"It  isn't  their  turn,"  said  Christie  carelessly;  "besides, 
they'll  probably  be  there." 

"And  I  suppose  they're  beginning  to  be  resigned,"  said 
Carr,  smiling. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  of,  father?" 

She  turned  her  clear  brown  eyes  upon  him,  and  was 
regarding  him  with  such  manifest  unconsciousness  of 
the  drift  of  his  speech,  and,  withal,  a  little  vague  im 
patience  of  his  archness,  that  Mr.  Carr  was  feebly 
alarmed.  It  had  the  effect  of  banishing  his  assumed  play 
fulness,  which  made  his  serious  explanation  the  more 
irritating. 

"Well,  I  rather  thought  that — that  young  Kearney  was 
paying  considerable  attention  to — to — to  Jessie,"  replied 
her  father,  with  hesitating  gravity. 

"What!  that  boy?" 

"Young  Kearney  is  one  of  the  original  locators,  and 
an  equal  partner  in  the  mine.  A  very  enterprising  young 
fellow.  In  fact,  much  more  advanced  and  bolder  in  his 
conceptions  than  the  others.  I  find  no  difficulty  with 
him." 

At  another  time  Christie  would  have  questioned  the 
convincing  quality  of  this  proof,  but  she  was  too  much 
shocked  at  her  father's  first  suggestion,  to  think  of  any 
thing  else. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  father,  that  you  are  talking 
seriously  of  these  men — your  friends — whom  we  see  every 
day — and  our  only  company?" 

"No,  no!"  said  Mr.  Carr  hastily;  "you  misunderstand. 
I  don't  suppose  that  Jessie  or  you — " 

"Or  me!    Am  /  included?" 

"You  don't  let  me  speak,  Christie.  I  mean,  I  am  not 
talking  seriously,"  continued  Mr.  Carr,  with  his  most 
serious  aspect,  "of  you  and  Jessie  in  this  matter;  but  it 
may  be  a  serious  thing  to  these  young  men  to  be  thrown 
continually  in  the  company  of  two  attractive  girls." 

"I  understand — you  mean  that  we  should  not  see  so 


108  DEVIL'S    FORD. 

much  of  them,"  said  Christie,  with  a  frank  expression  of 
relief  so  genuine  as  to  utterly  discompose  her  father. 
"Perhaps  you  are  right,  though  I  fail  to  discover  any 
thing  serious  in  the  attentions  of  young  Kearney  to  Jessie 
— or — whoever  it  may  be — to  me.  But  it  will  be  very 
easy  to  remedy  it,  and  see  less  of  them.  Indeed,  we 
might  begin  to-day  with  some  excuse." 

"Yes — certainly.  Of  course!"  said  Mr.  Carr,  fully 
convinced  of  his  utter  failure,  but,  like  most  weak  crea 
tures,  consoling  himself  with  the  reflection  that  he  had 
not  shown  his  hand  or  committed  himself.  "Yes ;  but  it 
would  perhaps  be  just  as  well  for  the  present  to  let 
things  go  on  as  they  were.  We'll  talk  of  it  again — I'm 
in  a  hurry  now,"  and,  edging  himself  through  the  door, 
he  slipped  away. 

"What  do  you  think  is  father's  last  idea  ?"  said  Christie, 
with,  I  fear,  a  slight  lack  of  reverence  in  her  tone,  as 
her  sister  reentered  the  room.  "He  thinks  George  Kear 
ney  is  paying  you  too  much  attention." 

"No !"  said  Jessie,  replying  to  her  sister's  half-inter 
rogative,  half-amused  glance  with  a  frank,  unconscious 
smile. 

"Yes,  and  he  says  that  Fairfax — I  think  it's  Fairfax — 
is  equally  fascinated  with  me." 

Jessie's  brow  slightly  contracted  as  she  looked  curiously 
at  her  sister. 

"Of  all  things,"  she  said,  "I  wonder  if  any  one  has  put 
that  idea  into  his  dear  old  head.  He  couldn't  have 
thought  it  himself." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Christie  musingly;  "but  perhaps 
it's  just  as  well  if  we  kept  a  little  more  to  ourselves  for 
a  while." 

"Did  father  say  so?"  said  Jessie  quickly. 

"No,  but  that  is  evidently  what  he  meant." 

"Ye-es,"  said  Jessie  slowly,  "unless — " 

"Unless  what?"  said  Christie  sharply.  "Jessie,  you 
don't  for  a  moment  mean  to  say  that  you  could  possibly 
conceive  of  anything  else?" 

"I  mean  to  say,"  said  Jessie,  stealing  her  arm  around 
her  sister's  waist  demurely,  "that  you  are  perfectly  right. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  109 

We'll  keep  away  from  these  fascinating  Devil's  Forders, 
and  particularly  the  youngest  Kearney.  I  believe  there 
has  been  some  ill-natured  gossip.  I  remember  that  the 
other  day,  when  we  passed  the  shanty  of  that  Pike 
County  family  on  the  slope,  there  were  three  women  at 
the  door,  and  one  of  them  said  something  that  made  poor 
little  Kearney  turn  white  and  pink  alternately,  and  dance 
with  suppressed  rage.  I  suppose  the  old  lady — M'Corkle, 
that's  her  name — would  like  to  have  a  share  of  our 
cavaliers  for  her  Euphemy  and  Mamie.  I  dare  say  it's 
only  right;  I  would  lend  them  the  cherub  occasionally, 
and  you  might  let  them  have  Mr.  Munroe  twice  a  week." 

She  laughed,  but  her  eyes  sought  her  sister's  with  a 
certain  watchfulness  of  expression. 

Christie  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with  a  suggestion  of 
disgust. 

"Don't  joke.  We  ought  to  have  thought  of  all  this 
before." 

"But  when  we  first  knew  them,  in  the  dear  old  cabin, 
there  wasn't  any  other  woman  and  nobody  to  gossip,  and 
that's  what  made  it  so  nice.  I  don't  think  so  very  much 
of  civilization,  do  you?"  said  the  young  lady  pertly. 

Christie  did  not  reply.  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  the 
same  thing.  It  certainly  had  been  very  pleasant  to  enjoy 
the  spontaneous  and  chivalrous  homage  of  these  men, 
with  no  further  suggestion  of  recompense  or  responsi 
bility  than  the  permission  to  be  worshipped;  but  beyond 
that  she  racked  her  brain  in  vain  to  recall  any  look  or 
act  that  proclaimed  the  lover.  These  men,  whom  she  had 
found  so  relapsed  into  barbarism  that  they  had  forgotten 
the  most  ordinary  forms  of  civilization;  these  men,  even 
in  whose  extravagant  admiration  there  was  a  certain  loss 
of  self-respect,  that  as  a  woman  she  would  never  forgive ; 
these  men,  who  seemed  to  belong  to  another  race — im 
possible  !  Yet  it  was  so. 

"What  construction  must  they  have  put  upon  her 
father's  acceptance  of  their  presents— of  their  company — 
of  her  freedom  in  their  presence  ?  No !  they  must  have 
understood  from  the  beginning  that  she  and  her  sister 
had  never  looked  upon  them  except  as  transient  hosts  and 


110  DEVIL'S    FORD 

chance  acquaintances.  Any  other  idea  was  preposterous. 
And  yet — " 

It  was  the  recurrence  of  this  "yet"  that  alarmed  her. 
For  she  remembered  now  that  but  for  their  slavish  de 
votion  they  might  claim  to  be  her  equal.  According  to 
her  father's  account,  they  had  come  from  homes  as  good 
as  their  own;  they  were  certainly  more  than  her  equal 
in  fortune ;  and  her  father  had  come  to  them  as  an  em 
ploye,  until  they  had  taken  him  into  partnership.  If  there 
had  only  been  sentiment  of  any  kind  connected  with  any 
of  them !  But  they  were  all  alike,  brave,  unselfish,  hu 
morous — and  often  ridiculous.  If  anything,  Dick  Mat- 
tingly  was  funniest  by  nature,  and  made  her  laugh  more. 
Maryland  Joe,  his  brother,  told  better  stories  (sometimes 
of  Dick),  though  not  so  good  a  mimic  as  the  other 
Kearney,  who  had  a  fairly  sympathetic  voice  in  singing. 
They  were  all  good-looking  enough ;  perhaps  they  set 
store  on  that — men  are  so  vain. 

And  as  for  her  own  rejected  suitor,  Fairfax  Munroe, 
except  for  a  kind  of  grave  and  proper  motherliness  about 
his  protecting  manner,  he  absolutely  was  the  most  in 
distinctive  of  them  all.  He  had  once  brought  her  some 
rare  tea  from  the  Chinese  camp,  and  had  taught  her  how 
to  make  it ;  he  had  cautioned  her  against  sitting  under  the 
trees  at  nightfall;  he  had  once  taken  off  his  coat  to  wrap 
around  her.  Really,  if  this  were  the  only  evidence  of 
devotion  that  could  be  shown,  she  was  safe ! 

"Well,"  said  Jessie,  "it  amuses  you,  I  see." 

Christie  checked  the  smile  that  had  been  dimpling  the 
cheek  nearest  Jessie,  and  turned  upon  her  the  face  of  an 
elder  sister. 

"Tell  me,  have  you  noticed  this  extraordinary  atten 
tion  of  Mr.  Munroe  to  me?" 

"Candidly?"  asked  Jessie,  seating  herself  comfortably 
on  the  table  sideways,  and  endeavoring  to  pull  her  skirt 
over  her  little  feet.  "Honest  Injun?" 

"Don't  be  idiotic,  and,  above  all,  don't  be  slangy !  Of 
course,  candidly." 

"Well,  no.    I  can't  say  that  I  have." 

"Then,"  said  Christie,  "why  in  the  name  of  all  that's 


DEVIL'S    FORD  111 

preposterous,  do  they  persist  in  pairing  me  off  with  the 
least  interesting  man  of  the  lot?" 

Jessie  leaped  from  the  table. 

"Come  now,"  she  said,  with  a  little  nervous  laugh,  "he's 
not  so  bad  as  all  that.  You  don't  know  him.  But  what 
does  it  matter  now,  as  long  as  we're  not  going  to  see 
them  any  more?" 

"They're  coming  here  for  the  ride  to-day,"  said  Christie 
resignedly.  "Father  thought  it  better  not  to  break  it  off 
at  once." 

"Father  thought  so !"  echoed  Jessie,  stopping  with  her 
hand  on  the  door. 

"Yes;  why  do  you  ask?" 

But  Jessie  had  already  left  the  room,  and  was  singing 
in  the  hall. 

CHAPTER  IV 

THE  afternoon  did  not,  however,  bring  their  expected 
visitors.  It  brought,  instead,  a  brief  note  by  the  hands 
of  Whiskey  Dick  from  Fairfax,  apologizing  for  some 
business  that  kept  him  and  George  Kearney  from  ac 
companying  the  ladies.  It  added  that  the  horses  were 
at  the  disposal  of  themselves  and  any  escort  they  might 
select,  if  they  would  kindly  give  the  message  to  Whiskey 
Dick. 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other  awkwardly;  Jessie 
did  not  attempt  to  conceal  a  slight  pout. 

"It  looks  as  if  they  were  anticipating  us,"  she  said, 
with  a  half-forced  smile.  "I  wonder,  now,  if  there 
really  has  been  any  gossip  ?  But  no !  They  wouldn't  have 
stopped  for  that,  unless — "  She  looked  curiously  at  her 
sister. 

"Unless  what?"  repeated  Christie;  "you  are  horribly 
mysterious  this  morning." 

"Am  I  ?  It's  nothing.  But  they're  wanting  an  answer. 
Of  course  you'll  decline." 

"And  intimate  we  only  care  for  their  company !  No ! 
We'll  say  we're  sorry  they  can't  come,  and — accept  their 
horses.  We  can  do  without  an  escort,  we  two." 


112  DEVIL'S    FORD 

"Capital !"  said  Jessie,  clapping  her  hands.  "We'll 
show  them — " 

"We'll  show  them  nothing,"  interrupted  Christie  de 
cidedly.  "In  our  place  there's  only  the  one  thing  to  do. 
Where  is  this— Whiskey  Dick?" 

"In  the  parlor." 

"The  parlor!"  echoed  Christie.  "Whiskey  Dick? 
What— is  he—" 

"Yes;  he's  all  right,"  said  Jessie  confidently.  "He's 
been  here  before,  but  he  stayed  in  the  hall;  he  was  so 
shy.  I  don't  think  you  saw  him." 

"I  should  think  not — Whiskey  Dick !" 

"Oh,  you  can  call  him  Mr.  Hall,  if  you  like,"  said 
Jessie,  laughing.  "His  real  name  is  Dick  Hall.  If  you 
want  to  be  funny,  you  can  say  Alky  Hall,  as  the  others 
do." 

Christie's  only  reply  to  this  levity  was  a  look  of  supe 
rior  resignation  as  she  crossed  the  hall  and  entered  the 
parlor. 

Then  ensued  one  of  those  surprising,  mystifying,  and 
utterly  inexplicable  changes  that  leave  the  masculine 
being  so  helpless  in  the  hands  of  his  feminine  master. 
Before  Christie  opened  the  door  her  face  underwent  a 
rapid  transformation :  the  gentle  glow  of  a  refined 
woman's  welcome  suddenly  beamed  in  her  interested 
eyes;  the  impulsive  courtesy  of  an  expectant  hostess 
eagerly  seizing  a  long-looked-for  opportunity  broke  in 
a  smile  upon  her  lips  as  she  swept  across  the  room,  and 
stopped  with  her  two  white  outstretched  hands  before 
Whiskey  Dick. 

It  needed  only  the  extravagant  contrast  presented  by 
that  gentleman  to  complete  the  tableau.  Attired  in  a 
suit  of  shining  black  alpaca,  the  visitor  had  evidently 
prepared  himself  with  some  care  for  a  possible  inter 
view.  He  was  seated  by  the  French  window  opening 
upon  the  veranda,  as  if  to  secure  a  retreat  in  case  of 
an  emergency.  Scrupulously  washed  and  shaven,  some 
of  the  soap  appeared  to  have  lingered  in  his  eyes  and 
inflamed  the  lids,  even  while  it  lent  a  sleek  and  shining 
lustre,  not  unlike  his  coat,  to  his  smooth  black  hair. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  113 

Nevertheless,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  had  allowed 
a  large  white  handkerchief  to  depend  gracefully  from  his 
fingers — a  pose  at  once  suggesting  easy  and  elegant 
langour. 

"How  kind  of  you  to  give  me  an  opportunity  to  make 
up  for  my  misfortune  when  you  last  called !  I  was  so 
sorry  to  have  missed  you.  But  it  was  entirely  my  fault ! 
You  were  hurried,  I  think — you  conversed  with  others 
in  the  hall — you — " 

She  stopped  to  assist  him  to  pick  up  the  handkerchief 
that  had  fallen,  and  the  Panama  hat  that  had  rolled  from 
his  lap  towards  the  window  when  he  had  started  sud 
denly  to  his  feet  at  the  apparition  of  grace  and  beauty. 
As  he  still  nervously  retained  the  two  hands  he  had 
grasped,  this  would  have  been  a  difficult  feat,  even  had 
he  not  endeavored  at  the  same  moment,  by  a  backward 
furtive  kick,  to  propel  the  hat  out  of  the  window,  at 
which  she  laughingly  broke  from  his  grasp  and  flew 
to  the  rescue. 

"Don't  mind  it,  miss,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "It  is  not 
worth  your  demeaning  yourself  to  touch  it.  Leave  it 
outside  thar,  miss.  I  wouldn't  have  toted  it  in,  anyhow, 
if  some  of  those  high-falutin'  fellows  hadn't  allowed,  the 
other  night,  ez  it  were  the  reg'lar  thing  to  do;  as  if, 
miss,  any  gentleman  kalkilated  to  ever  put  on  his  hat 
in  the  house  afore  a  lady !" 

But  Christie  had  already  possessed  herself  of  the  un 
lucky  object,  and  had  placed  it  upon  the  table.  This 
compelled  Whiskey  Dick  to  rise  again,  and  as  an  act 
of  careless  good  breeding  to  drop  his  handkerchief  in 
it.  He  then  leaned  one  elbow  upon  the  piano,  and, 
crossing  one  foot  over  the  other,  remained  standing  in 
an  attitude  he  remembered  to  have  seen  in  the  pages 
of  an  illustrated  paper  as  portraying  the  hero  in  some 
drawing-room  scene.  It  was  easy  and  effective,  but 
seemed  to  be  more  favorable  to  revery  than  conversa 
tion.  Indeed,  he  remembered  that  he  had  forgotten  to 
consult  the  letterpress  as  to  which  it  represented. 

"I  see  you  agree  with  me,  that  politeness  is  quite  a 
matter  of  intention,"  said  Christie,  "and  not  of  mere 


DEVIL'S   FORD 

fashion  and  rules.  Now,  for  instance,"  she  continued, 
with  a  dazzling  smile,  "I  suppose,  according  to  the 
rules,  I  ought  to  give  you  a  note  to  Mr.  Munroe,  accept 
ing  his  offer.  That  is  all  that  is  required;  but  it  seems 
so  much  nicer,  don't  you  think,  to  tell  it  to  you  for  him, 
and  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  and  a  little 
chat  at  the  same  time." 

"That's  it,  that's  just  it,  Miss  Carr;  you've  hit  it  in 
the  centre  this  time,"  said  Whiskey  Dick,  now  quite  con 
vinced  that  his  attitude  was  not  intended  for  eloquence, 
and  shifting  back  to  his  own  seat,  hat  and  all;  "that's 
tantamount  to  what  I  said  to  the  boys  just  now.  'You 
want  an  excuse/  sez  I,  'for  not  goin'  out  with  the  young 
ladies.  So,  accorden'  to  rules,  you  writes  a  letter  allowin' 
buzziness  and  that  sorter  thing  detains  you.  But  wot's  the 
facts  ?  You're  a  gentleman,  and  as  gentlemen  you  and 
George  comes  to  the  opinion  that  you're  rather  playin' 
it  for  all  it's  worth  in  this  yer  house,  you  know — comin' 
here  night  and  day,  off  and  on,  reg'lar  sociable  and  fam'ly 
like,  and  makin'  people  talk  about  things  they  ain't  any 
call  to  talk  about,  and,  what's  a  darned  sight  more, 
you  fellows  ain't  got  any  right  yet  to  allow  'em  to  talk 
about,  d'ye  see  ?"  He  paused,  out  of  breath. 

It  was  Miss  Christie's  turn  to  move  about.  In  chang 
ing  her  seat  to  the  piano-stool,  so  as  to  be  nearer  her 
visitor,  she  brushed  down  some  loose  music,  which 
Whiskey  Dick  hastened  to  pick  up. 

"Pray  don't  mind  it,"  she  said,  "pray  don't,  really — let 
it  be — "  But  Whiskey  Dick,  feeling  himself  on  safe 
ground  in  this  attention,  persisted  to  the  bitter  end  of  a 
disintegrated  and  well-worn  "Travatore."  "So  that  is 
what  Mr.  Munroe  said,"  she  remarked  quietly. 

"Not  just  then,  in  course,  but  it's  what's  bin  on  his 
mind  and  in  his  talk  for  days  off  and  on,"  returned  Dick, 
with  a  knowing  smile  and  a  nod  of  mysterious  confidence. 
"Bless  your  soul,  Miss  Carr,  folks  like  you  and  me  don't 
need  to  have  them  things  explained.  That's  what  I  said 
to  him,  sez  I.  'Don't  send  no  note,  but  just  go  up  there 
and  hev  it  out  fair  and  square,  and  say  what  you  do 
mean.'  But  they  would  hev  the  note,  and  I  kalkilated 


DEVIL'S    FORD  115 

to  bring  it.  But  when  I  set  my  eyes  on  you,  and  heard 
you  express  yourself  as  you  did  just  now,  I  sez  to  my 
self,  sez  I,  'Dick,  yer's  a  young  lady,  and  a  fash'nable 
lady  at  that,  ez  don't  go  foolin'  round  on  rules  and 
etiketts' — excuse  my  freedom,  Miss  Carr — 'and  you  and 
her,  sez  I,  'kin  just  discuss  this  yer  matter  in  a  sociable, 
off-hand,  fash'nable  way.'  They're  a  good  lot  o'  boys, 
Miss  Carr,  a  square  lot — white  men  all  of  'em ;  but 
they're  a  little  soft  and  green,  may  be,  from  livin'  in 
these  yer  pine  woods  along  o'  the  other  sap.  They  just 
worship  the  ground  you  and  your  sister  tread  on — cer 
tain  !  of  course !  of  course !"  he  added  hurriedly,  recog 
nizing  Christie's  half-conscious,  deprecating  gesture  with 
more  exaggerated  deprecation.  "I  understand.  But 
what  I  wanter  say  is  that  they'd  be  willin'  to  be  that 
ground,  and  lie  down  and  let  you  walk  over  them — so 
to  speak,  Miss  Carr,  so  to  speak — if  it  would  keep  the 
hem  of  your  gown  from  gettin'  soiled  in  the  mud  o'  the 
camp.  But  it  wouldn't  do  for  them  to  make  a  reg'lar 
curderoy  road  o'  themselves  for  the  houl  camp  to  trapse 
over,  on  the  mere  chance  of  your  some  time  passin'  that 
way,  would  it  now  ?" 

"Won't  you  let  me  offer  you  some  refreshment,  Mr. 
Hall?"  said  Christie,  rising,  with  a  slight  color.  "I'm 
really  ashamed  of  my  forgetfulness  again,  but  I'm  afraid 
it's  partly  your  fault  for  entertaining  me  to  the  exclu 
sion  of  yourself.  No,  thank  you,  let  me  fetch  it  for 
you." 

She  turned  to  a  handsome  sideboard  near  the  door, 
and  presently  faced  him  again  with  a  decanter  of  whiskey 
and  a  glass  in  her  hand,  and  a  return  of  the  bewitching 
smile  she  had  worn  on  entering. 

"But  perhaps  you  don't  take  whiskey?"  suggested  the 
arch  deceiver,  with  a  sudden  affected  but  pretty  per 
plexity  of  eye,  brow,  and  lips. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Whiskey  Dick  hesitated 
between  two  forms  of  intoxication.  But  he  was  still 
nervous  and  uneasy;  habit  triumphed,  and  he  took  the 
whiskey.  He,  however,  wiped  his  lips  with  a  slight  wave 
of  his  handkerchief,  to  support  a  certain  easy  elegance 


116  DEVIL'S    FOED 

which  he  firmly  believed  relieved  the  act  of  any  vulgar 
quality. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  continued,  after  an  exhilarated  pause. 
"Ez  I  said  afore,  this  yer's  a  matter  you  and  me  can  dis 
cuss  after  the  fashion  o'  society.  My  idea  is  that  these 
yer  boys  should  kinder  let  up  on  you  and  Miss  Jessie 
for  a  while,  and  do  a  little  more  permiskus  attention 
round  the  Ford.  There's  one  or  two  families  yer  with 
grown-up  gals  ez  oughter  be  squared ;  that  is — the  boys 
mighter  put  in  a  few  fancy  touches  among  them — kinder 
take  'em  buggy  riding — or  to  church — once  in  a  while — 
just  to  take  the  pizen  outer  their  tongues,  and  make 
a  kind  o'  bluff  to  the  parents,  d'ye  see?  That  would 
sorter  divert  their  own  minds;  and  even  if  it  didn't,  it 
would  kinder  get  'em  accustomed  agin  to  the  old  style 
and  their  own  kind.  I  want  to  warn  ye  agin  an  idea 
that  might  occur  to  you  in  a  giniral  way.  I  don't  say 
you  hev  the  idea,  but  it's  kind  o'  nat'ral  you  might  be 
thinkin'  of  it  some  time,  and  I  thought  I'd  warn  you 
agin  it." 

"I  think  we  understand  each  other  too  well  to  differ 
much,  Mr.  Hall,"  said  Christie,  still  smiling;  "but  what 
is  the  idea?" 

The  delicate  compliment  to  their  confidential  relations 
and  the  slight  stimulus  of  liquor  had  tremulously  exalted 
Whiskey  Dick.  Affecting  to  look  cautiously  out  of  the 
window  and  around  the  room,  he  ventured  to  draw  nearer 
the  young  woman  with  a  half-paternal,  half-timid  famil 
iarity. 

"It  might  have  occurred  to  you,"  he  said,  laying  his 
handkerchief  as  if  to  veil  mere  vulgar  contact,  on 
Christie's  shoulder,  "that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  on 
your  side  to  invite  down  some  of  your  high-toned  gen 
tlemen  friends  from  'Frisco  to  visit  you  and  escort  you 
round.  It  seems  quite  nat'ral  like,  and  I  don't  say  it 
ain't,  but — the  boys  wouldn't  stand  for  it." 

In  spite  of  her  self-possession,  Christie's  eyes  suddenly 
darkened,  and  she  involuntarily  drew  herself  up.  But 
Whiskey  Dick,  guiltily  attributing  the  movement  to  his 
own  indiscreet  gesture,  said,  "Excuse  me,  miss,"  recov- 


DEVIL'S    FORD  117 

ered  himself  by  lightly  dusting  her  shoulder  with  his 
handkerchief,  as  if  to  remove  the  impression,  and  her 
smile  returned. 

"They  wouldn't  stand  for  it,"  said  Dick,  "and  there'd 
be  some  shooting!  Not  afore  you,  miss — not  afore  you, 
in  course !  But  theyid  adjourn  to  the  woods  some  morn 
ing  with  them  city  folks,  and  hev  it  out  with  rifles  at  a 
hundred  yards.  Or,  seein'  ez  they're  city  folks,  the  boys 
would  do  the  square  thing  with  pistols  at  twelve  paces. 
They're  good  boys,  as  I  said  afore ;  but  they're  quick  and 
tetchy — George,  being  the  youngest,  nat'rally  is  the 
tetchiest.  You  know  how  it  is,  Miss  Carr;  his  pretty, 
gal-like  face  and  little  moustaches  haz  cost  him  half 
a  dozen  scrimmages  already.  He'z  had  a  fight  for  every 
hair  that's  growed  in  his  moustache  since  he  kem  here." 

"Say  no  more,  Mr.  Hall !"  said  Christie,  rising  and 
pressing  her  hands  lightly  on  Dick's  tremulous  fingers. 
"If  I  ever  had  any  such  idea,  I  should  abandon  it  now; 
you  are  quite  right  in  this  as  in  your  other  opinions.  I 
shall  never  cease  to  be  thankful  to  Mr.  Munroe  and  Mr. 
Kearney  that  they  intrusted  this  delicate  matter  to  your 
hands." 

"Well,"  said  the  gratified  and  reddening  visitor,  "it 
ain't  perhaps  the  square  thing  to  them  or  myself  to  say 
that  they  reckoned  to  have  me  discuss  their  delicate  af 
fairs  for  them,  but — " 

"I  understand,"  interrupted  Christie.  "They  simply 
gave  you  the  letter  as  a  friend.  It  was  my  good  fortune 
to  find  you  a  sympathizing  and  liberal  man  of  the  world." 
The  delighted  Dick,  with  conscious  vanity  beaming  from 
every  feature  of  his  shining  face,  lightly  waved  the  com 
pliment  aside  with  his  handkerchief,  as  she  continued, 
"But  I  am  forgetting  the  message.  We  accept  the 
horses.  Of  course  we  could  do  without  an  escort ;  but 
forgive  my  speaking  so  frankly,  are  you  engaged  this 
afternoon  ?" 

"Excuse  me,  miss,  I  don't  take — "  stammered  Dick, 
scarcely  believing  his  ears. 

"Could  you  give  us  your  company  as  an  escort?"  re' 
peated  Christie  with  a  smile. 


118  DEVIL'S   FORD 

Was  he  awake  or  dreaming,  or  was  this  some  trick 
of  liquor  in  his  often  distorted  fancy?  He,  Whiskey 
Dick !  the  butt  of  his  friends,  the  chartered  oracle  of  the 
barrooms,  even  in  whose  wretched  vanity  there  was  al 
ways  the  haunting  suspicion  that  he  was  despised  and 
scorned;  he,  who  had  dared  so  much  in  speech,  and 
achieved  so  little  in  fact !  he,  whose  habitual  weakness 
had  even  led  him  into  the  wildest  indiscretion  here ;  he—, 
now  offered  a  reward  for  that  indiscretion !  He,  Whis 
key  Dick,  the  solicited  escort  of  these  two  beautifu> 
and  peerless  girls!  What  would  they  say  at  the  FordV 
What  would  his  friends  think?  It  would  be  all  over  the 
Ford  the  next  day.  His  past  would  be  vindicated,  his 
future  secured.  He  grew  erect  at  the  thought.  It  was 
almost  in  other  voice,  and  with  no  trace  of  his  pre 
vious  exaggeration,  that  he  said,  "With  pleasure." 

"Then,  if  you  will  bring  the  horses  at  once,  we  shall 
be  ready  when  you  return." 

In  another  instant  he  had  vanished,  as  if  afraid  to 
trust  the  reality  of  his  good  fortune  to  the  dangers  of 
delay.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  reappeared,  leading 
the  two  horses,  himself  mounted  on  a  half-broken  mus 
tang.  A  pair  of  large,  jingling  silver  spurs  and  a  stiff 
sombrero,  borrowed  with  the  mustang  from  some  myste 
rious  source,  were  donned  to  do  honor  to  the  occasion. 

The  young  girls  were  not  yet  ready,  but  he  was  shown 
by  the  Chinese  servant  into  the  parlor  to  wait  for  them. 
The  decanter  of  whiskey  and  glasses  were  still  invitingly 
there.  He  was  hot,  trembling,  and  flushed  with  triumph. 
He  walked  to  the  table  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  decanter, 
when  an  odd  thought  flashed  upon  him.  He  would  not 
drink  this  time.  No,  it  should  not  be  said  that  he,  the 
selected  escort  of  the  elite  of  Devil's  Ford,  had  to  fill 
himself  up  with  whiskey  before  they  started.  The  boys 
might  turn  to  each  other  in  their  astonishment,  as  he 
proudly  passed  with  his  fair  companions,  and  say,  "It's 

Whiskey  Dick,"  but  he'd  be  d -d  if  they  should  add, 

"and  full  as  ever."  No,  sir !  Nor  when  he  was  riding 
beside  these  real  ladies,  and  leaning  over  them  at  some 
confidential  moment,  should  they  even  know  it  from  his 


DEVIL'S    FORD  119 

breath !  No.  .  .  .  Yet  a  thimbleful,  taken  straight,  only 
a  thimbleful,  wouldn't  be  much,  and  might  help  to  pull 
him  together.  He  again  reached  his  trembling  hand  for 
the  decanter,  hesitated,  and  then,  turning  his  back  upon 
it,  resolutely  walked  to  the  open  window.  Almost 
at  the  same  instant  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Christie  on  the  veranda. 

She  looked  into  his  bloodshot  eyes,  and  cast  a  swift 
glance  at  the  decanter. 

"Won't  you  take  something  before  you  go?"  she  said 
sweetly. 

"I — reckon — not,  jest  now,"  stammered  Whiskey  Dick, 
with  a  heroic  effort. 

"You're  right,"  said  Christie.  "I  see  you  are  like 
me.  It's  too  hot  for  anything  fiery.  Come  with  me." 

She  led  him  into  the  dining-room,  and  pouring  out  a 
glass  of  iced  tea  handed  it  to  him.  Poor  Dick  was  not 
prepared  for  this  terrible  culmination.  Whiskey  Dick  and 
iced  tea !  But  under  pretence  of  seeing  if  it  was  properly 
flavored,  Christie  raised  it  to  her  own  lips. 

"Try  it,  to  please  me." 

He  drained  the  goblet. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Christie  gayly,  "let's  find  Jessie, 
and  be  off !" 

CHAPTER    V 

WHATEVER  might  have  been  his  other  deficiencies  as  an 
escort,  Whiskey  Dick  was  a  good  horseman,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  fractious  brute,  exhibited  such  skill  and  confidence 
as  to  at  once  satisfy  the  young  girls  of  his  value  to  them 
in  the  management  of  their  own  horses,  to  whom  side 
saddles  were  still  an  alarming  novelty.  Jessie,  who  had 
probably  already  learned  from  her  sister  the  purport  of 
Dick's  confidences,  had  received  him  with  equal  cordiality 
and  perhaps  a  more  unqualified  amusement;  and  now, 
when  fairly  lifted  into  the  saddle  by  his  tremulous  but 
respectful  hands,  made  a  very  charming  picture  of  youth 
ful  and  rosy  satisfaction.  And  when  Christie,  more  fasci 
nating  than  ever  in  her  riding-habit,  took  her  place  on  the 


120  DEVIL'S    FORD 

other  side  of  Dick,  as  they  sallied  from  the  gate,  that 
gentleman  felt  his  cup  of  happiness  complete.  His  tri 
umphal  entree  into  the  world  of  civilization  and  fashion 
was  secure.  He  did  not  regret  the  untasted  liquor;  here 
was  an  experience  in  after  years  to  lean  his  back  against 
comfortably  in  bar-rooms,  to  entrance  or  defy  mankind. 
He  had  even  got  so  far  as  to  formulate  in  fancy  the 
sentence:  "I  remember,  gentlemen,  that  one  afternoon, 
being  on  a  pasear  with  two  fash'nable  young  ladies,"  etc., 
etc. 

At  present,  however,  he  was  obliged  to  confine  himself 
to  the  functions  of  an  elegant  guide  and  cicerone — when 
not  engaged  in  "having  it  out"  with  his  horse.  Their  way 
lay  along  the  slope,  crossing  the  high-road  at  right  angles, 
to  reach  the  deeper  woods  beyond.  Dick  would  have 
lingered  on  the  highway — ostensibly  to  point  out  to  his 
companions  the  new  flume  that  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
condemned  ditch,  but  really  in  the  hope  of  exposing  him 
self  in  his  glory  to  the  curious  eyes  of  the  wayfaring 
world. 

Unhappily  the  road  was  deserted  in  the  still  powerful 
sunlight,  and  he  was  obliged  to  seek  the  cover  of  the 
woods,  with  a  passing  compliment  to  the  parent  of  his 
charges.  Waving  his  hands  towards  the  flume,  he  said, 
"Look  at  that  work  of  your  father's ;  there  ain't  no  other 
man  in  Californy  but  Philip  Carr  ez  would  hev  the  grit 
to  hold  up  such  a  bluff  agin  natur  and  agin  luck  ez  that 
yer  flume  stands  for.  I  don't  say  it  'cause  you're  his 
daughters,  ladies  !  That  ain't  the  style,  ez  you  know,  in 
sassiety,  Miss  Carr,"  he  added,  turning  to  Christie  as  the 
more  socially  experienced.  "No !  but  there  ain't  another 
man  to  be  found  ez  could  do  it.  It  cost  already  two  hun 
dred  thousand;  it'll  cost  five  hundred  thousand  afore  it's 
done ;  and  every  cent  of  it  is  got  out  of  the  yearth  be 
neath  it,  or  hez  got  to  be  out  of  it.  'Tain't  ev'ry  man, 
Miss  Carr,  ez  hev  got  the  pluck  to  pledge  not  only  what 
he's  got,  but  what  he  reckons  to  git." 

"But  suppose  he  don't  get  it?"  said  Christie,  slightly 
contracting  her  brows. 

"Then  there's  the  flume  to  show  for  it,"  said  Dick. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  121 

"But  of  what  use  is  the  flume,  if  there  isn't  any  more 
gold?"  continued  Christie,  almost  angrily. 

"That's  good  from  you,  miss,"  said  Dick,  giving  way  to 
a  fit  of  hilarity.  "That's  good  for  a  fash'nable  young  lady 
— own  daughter  of  Philip  Carr.  She  sez,  says  she,"  con 
tinued  Dick,  appealing  to  the  sedate  pines  for  apprecia 
tion  of  Christie's  rare  humor,  "  'Wot's  the  use  of  a  flume, 
when  gold  ain't  there  ?'  I  must  tell  that  to  the  boys." 

"And  what's  the  use  of  the  gold  in  the  ground  when  the 
flume  isn't  there  to  work  it  out  ?"  said  Jessie  to  her  sister, 
with  a  cautioning  glance  towards  Dick. 

But  Dick  did  not  notice  the  look  that  passed  between 
the  sisters.  The  richer  humor  of  Jessie's  retort  had 
thrown  him  into  convulsions  of  laughter. 

"And  now  she  says,  wot's  the  use  o'  the  gold  without 
the  flume?  'Xcuse  me,  ladies,  but  that's  just  puttin'  the 
hull  question  that's  agitatin'  this  yer  camp  inter  two 
speeches  as  clear  as  crystal.  There's  the  hull  crowd  out 
side — and  some  on  'em  inside,  like  Fairfax,  hez  their 
doubts — ez  says  with  Miss  Christie;  and  there's  all  of  us 
inside,  ez  holds  Miss  Jessie's  views." 

"I  never  heard  Mr.  Munroe  say  that  the  flume  was 
wrong,"  said  Jessie  quickly. 

"Not  to  you,  nat'rally,"  said  Dick,  with  a  confidential 
look  at  Christie ;  "but  I  reckon  he'd  like  some  of  the 
money  it  cost  laid  out  for  suthin'  else.  But  what's  the 
odds  ?  The  gold  is  there,  and  we're  bound  to  get  it." 

Dick  was  the  foreman  of  a  gang  of  paid  workmen,  who 
had  replaced  the  millionaires  in  mere  manual  labor,  and 
the  we  was  a  polite  figure  of  speech. 

The  conversation  seemed  to  have  taken  an  unfortunate 
turn,  and  both  the  girls  experienced  a  feeling  of  relief 
when  they  entered  the  long  gulch  or  defile  that  led  to 
Indian  Spring.  The  track  now  becoming  narrow,  they 
were  obliged  to  pass  in  single  file  along  the  precipitous 
hillside,  led  by  this  escort.  This  effectually  precluded  any 
further  speech,  and  Christie  at  once  surrendered  herself 
to  the  calm,  obliterating  influences  of  the  forest.  The  set 
tlement  and  its  gossip  were  far  behind  and  forgotten.  In 
the  absorption  of  nature,  her  companions  passed  out  of 


122  DEVIL'S    FORD 

her  mind,  even  as  they  sometimes  passed  out  of  her  sight 
in  the  windings  of  the  shadowy  trail.  As  she  rode  alone, 
the  fronds  of  breast-high  ferns  seemed  to  caress  her  with 
outstretched  and  gently-detaining  hands ;  strange  wild- 
flowers  sprang  up  through  the  parting  underbrush;  even 
the  granite  rocks  that  at  times  pressed  closely  upon  the 
trail  appeared  as  if  cushioned  to  her  contact  with  star- 
rayed  mosses,  or  lightly  flung  after  her  long  lassoes  of 
delicate  vines.  She  recalled  the  absolute  freedom  of  their 
al-fresco  life  in  the  old  double  cabin,  when  she  spent  the 
greater  part  of  her  waking  hours  under  the  mute  trees  in 
the  encompassing  solitude,  and,  half  regretting  the  more 
civilized  restraints  of  this  newer  and  more  ambitious 
abode,  forgot  that  she  had  ever  rebelled  against  it.  The 
social  complication  that  threatened  her  now  seemed  to 
her  rather  the  outcome  of  her  half-civilized  parlor  than 
of  the  sylvan  glade.  How  easy  it  would  have  been  to 
have  kept  the  cabin,  and  then  to  have  gone  away  en 
tirely,  than  for  her  father  to  have  allowed  them  to  be 
compromised  with  the  growing  fortunes  of  the  settle 
ment  !  The  suspicions  and  distrust  that  she  had  always 
felt  of  their  fortunes  seemed  to  grow  with  the  involun 
tary  admission  of  Whiskey  Dick  that  they  were  shared  by 
others  who  were  practical  men.  She  was  fain  to  have 
recourse  to  the  prospect  again  to  banish  these  thoughts, 
and  this  opened  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that  her  companions 
had  been  missing  from  the  trail  ahead  of  her  for  some 
time.  She  quickened  her  pace  slightly  to  reach  a  pro 
jecting  point  of  rock  that  gave  her  a  more  extended 
prospect.  But  they  had  evidently  disappeared. 

She  was  neither  alarmed  nor  annoyed.  She  could 
easily  overtake  them  soon,  for  they  would  miss  her,  and 
return  or  wait  for  her  at  the  spring.  At  the  worst  she 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  retracing  her  steps  home.  In 
her  present  mood,  she  could  readily  spare  their  company; 
indeed  she  was  not  sorry  that  no  other  being  should 
interrupt  that  sympathy  with  the  free  woods  which  was 
beginning  to  possess  her. 

She  was  destined,  however,  to  be  disappointed.  She 
had  not  proceeded  a  hundred  yards  before  she  noticed 


DEVIL'S    FORD  123 

the  moving  figure  of  a  man  beyond  her  in  the  hillside 
chaparral  above  the  trail.  He  seemed  to  be  going  in  the 
same  direction  as  herself,  and,  as  she  fancied,  endeavor 
ing  to  avoid  her.  This  excited  her  curiosity  to  the  point 
of  urging  her  horse  forward  until  the  trail  broadened 
into  the  level  forest  again,  which  she  now  remembered 
was  a  part  of  the  environs  of  Indian  Spring.  The 
stranger  hesitated,  pausing  once  or  twice  with  his  back 
towards  her,  as  if  engaged  in  carefully  examining  the 
dwarf  willows  to  select  a  switch.  Christie  slightly 
checked  her  speed  as  she  drew  nearer ;  when,  as  if  obedi 
ent  to  a  sudden  resolution,  he  turned  and  advanced 
towards  her.  She  was  relieved  and  yet  surprised  to 
recognize  the  boyish  face  and  figure  of  George  Kearney. 
He  was  quite  pale  and  agitated,  although  attempting,  by 
a  jaunty  swinging  of  the  switch  he  had  just  cut,  to  as 
sume  the  appearance  of  ease  and  confidence. 

Here  was  an  opportunity.  Christie  resolved  to  profit 
by  it.  She  did  not  doubt  that  the  young  fellow  had  al 
ready  passed  her  sister  on  the  trail,  but,  from  bashful- 
ness,  had  not  dared  to  approach  her.  By  inviting  his 
confidence,  she  would  doubtless  draw  something  from 
him  that  would  deny  or  corroborate  her  father's  opinion 
of  his  sentiments.  If  he  was  really  in  love  with  Jessie, 
she  would  learn  what  reasons  he  had  for  expecting  a 
serious  culmination  of  his  suit,  and  perhaps  she  might 
be  able  delicately  to  open  his  eyes  to  the'  truth.  If,  as 
she  believed,  it  was  only  a  boyish  fancy,  she  would  laugh 
him  out  of  it  with  that  camaraderie  which  had  always 
existed  between  them.  A  half  motherly  sympathy,  albeit 
born  quite  as  much  from  a  contemplation  of  his  beauti 
ful  yearning  eyes  as  from  his  interesting  position,  light 
ened  the  smile  with  which  she  greeted  him. 

"So  you  contrived  to  throw  over  your  stupid  business 
and  join  us,  after  all,"  she  said;  "or  was  it  that  you 
changed  your  mind  at  the  last  moment?"  she  added  mis 
chievously.  "I  thought  only  we  women  were  permitted 
that !"  Indeed,  she  could  not  help  noticing  that  there 
was  really  a  strong  feminine  suggestion  in  the  shifting 
color  and  slightly  conscious  eyelids  of  the  young  fellow. 


124  DEVIL'S    FOKD 

"Do  young  girls  always  change  their  minds?"  asked 
George,  with  an  embarrassed  smile. 

"Not,  always ;  but  sometimes  they  don't  know  their 
own  mind — particularly  if  they  are  very  young;  and 
when  they  do  at  last,  you  clever  creatures  of  men,  who 
have  interpreted  their  ignorance  to  please  yourselves, 
abuse  them  for  being  fickle."  She  stopped  to  observe 
the  effect  of  what  she  believed  a  rather  clear  and  sig 
nificant  exposition  of  Jessie's  and  George's  possible  situa 
tion.  But  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  look  of  blank 
resignation  that  seemed  to  drive  the  color  from  his  face 
and  moisten  the  fire  of  his  dark  eyes. 

"I  reckon  you're  right,"  he  said,  looking  down. 

"Oh !  we're  not  accusing  you  of  fickleness,"  said 
Christie  gayly ;  "although  you  didn't  come,  and  we  were 
obliged  to  ask  Mr.  Hall  to  join  us.  I  suppose  you  found 
him  and  Jessie  just  now?" 

But  George  made  no  reply.  The  color  was  slowly 
coming  back  to  his  face,  which,  as  she  glanced  covertly 
at  him,  seemed  to  have  grown  so  much  older  that  his 
returning  blood  might  have  brought  two  or  three  years 
with  it. 

"Really,  Mr.  Kearney,"  she  said  dryly,  "one  would 
think  that  some  silly,  conceited  girl"  —  she  was  quite 
earnest  in  her  epithets,  for  a  sudden,  angry  conviction 
of  some  coquetry  and  disingenuousness  in  Jessie  had 
come  to  her  in  contemplating  its  effects  upon  the  young 
fellow  at  her  side  —  "some  country  jilt,  had  been  trying 
her  rustic  hand  upon  you." 

"She  is  not  silly,  conceited,  nor  countrified,"  said 
George,  slowly  raising  his  beautiful  eyes  to  the  young 
girl  half  reproachfully.  "It  is  I  who  am  all  that.  No, 
she  is  right,  and  you  know  it." 

Much  as  Ch'ristie  admired  and  valued  her  sister's 
charms,  she  thought  this  was  really  going  too  far.  What 
had  Jessie  ever  done — what  was  Jessie — to  provoke  and 
remain  insensible  to  such  a  blind  devotion  as  this?  And 
really,  looking  at  him  now,  he  was  not  so  very  young 
for  Jessie;  whether  his  unfortunate  passion  had  brought 
out  all  his  latent  manliness,  or  whether  he  had  hitherto 


DEVIL'S    FORD  125 

kept  his  serious  nature  in  the  background,  certainly  he 
was  not  a  boy.  And  certainly  his  was  not  a  passion  that 
he  could  be  laughed  out  of.  It  was  getting  very  tire 
some.  She  wished  she  had  not  met  him — at  least  until 
she  had  had  some  clearer  understanding  with  her  sister. 
He  was  still  walking  beside  her,  with  his  hand  on  her 
bridle  rein,  partly  to  lead  her  horse  over  some  boulders 
in  the  trail,  and  partly  to  conceal  his  first  embarrassment. 
When  they  had  fairly  reached  the  woods,  he  stopped. 

"I  am  going  to  say  good-by,  Miss  Carr." 

"Are  you  not  coming  further?  We  must  be  near 
Indian  Spring,  now;  Mr.  Hall  and — and  Jessie — cannot 
be  far  away.  You  will  keep  me  company  until  we  meet 
them  ?" 

"No,"  he  replied  quietly.  "I  only  stopped  you  to  say 
good-by.  I  am  going  away." 

"Not  from  Devil's  Ford?"  she  asked,  in  half-incredu 
lous  astonishment.  "At  least,  not  for  long?" 

"I  am  not  coming  back,"  he  replied. 

"But  this  is  very  abrupt,"  she  said  hurriedly,  feeling 
that  in  some  ridiculous  way  she  had  precipitated  an 
equally  ridiculous  catastrophe.  "Surely  you  are  not  go 
ing  away  in  this  fashion,  without  saying  good-by  to 
Jessie  and — and  father?" 

"I  shall  see  your  father,  of  course — and  you  will  give 
my  regards  to  Miss  Jessie." 

He  evidently  was  in  earnest.  Was  there  ever  any 
thing  so  perfectly  preposterous?  She  became  indig 
nant. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  coldly,  "I  won't  detain  you;  your 
business  must  be  urgent,  and  I  forgot — at  least  I  had 
forgotten  until  to-day — that  you  have  other  duties  more 
important  than  that  of  squire  of  dames.  I  am  afraid  this 
forgetfulness  made  me  think  you  would  not  part  from  us 
in  quite  such  a  business  fashion.  I  presume,  if  you  had 
not  met  me  just  now,  we  should  none  of  us  have  seen 
you  again?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"Will  you  say  good-by,  Miss  Carr?" 

He  held  out  his  hand. 


126  DEVIL'S    FORD 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Kearney.  If  I  have  said  any 
thing  which  you  think  justifies  this  very  abrupt  leave- 
taking,  I  beg  you  will  forgive  and  forget  it — or,  at  least, 
let  it  have  no  more  weight  with  you  than  the  idle  words 
of  any  woman.  I  only  spoke  generally.  You  know — I — 
I  might  be  mistaken." 

His  eyes,  which  had  dilated  when  she  began  to  speak, 
darkened ;  his  color,  which  had  quickly  come,  as  quickly 
sank  when  she  had  ended. 

"Don't  say  that,  Miss  Carr.  It  is  not  like  you,  and — 
it  is  useless.  You  know  what  I  meant  a  moment  ago.  I 
read  it  in  your  reply.  You  meant  that  I,  like  others,  had 
deceived  myself.  Did  you  not?" 

She  could  not  meet  those  honest  eyes  with  less  than 
equal  honesty.  She  knew  that  Jessie  did  not  love  him — 
would  not  marry  him — whatever  coquetry  she  might  have 
shown. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you,"  she  said  hesitatingly; 
"I  only  half  suspected  it  when  I  spoke." 

"And  you  wish  to  spare  me  the  avowal?"  he  said 
bitterly. 

"To  me,  perhaps,  yes,  by  anticipating  it.  I  could  not 
tell  what  ideas  you  might  have  gathered  from  some  in 
discreet  frankness  of  Jessie — or  my  father,"  she  added, 
with  almost  equal  bitterness. 

"I  have  never  spoken  to  either,"  he  replied  quickly. 
He  stopped,  and  added,  after  a  moment's  mortifying 
reflection,  "I've  been  brought  up  in  the  woods,  Miss 
Carr,  and  I  suppose  I  have  followed  my  feelings,  instead 
of  the  etiquette  of  society." 

Christie  was  too  relieved  at  the  rehabilitation  of 
Jessie's  truthfulness  to  notice  the  full  significance  of  his 
speech. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  again,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Good-by !" 

She  extended  her  own,  ungloved,  with  a  frank  smile. 
He  held  it  for  a  moment,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  hers. 
Then  suddenly,  as  if  obeying  an  uncontrollable  impulse, 
he  crushed  it  like  a  flower  again  and  again  against  his 
burning  lips,  and  darted  away. 


DEVIL'S    FOED  127 

Christie  sank  back  in  her  saddle  with  a  little  cry,  half 
of  pain  and  half  of  frightened  surprise.  Had  the  poor 
boy  suddenly  gone  mad,  or  was  this  vicarious  farewell 
a  part  of  the  courtship  of  Devil's  Ford?  She  looked  at 
her  little  hand,  which  had  reddened  under  the  pressure, 
and  suddenly  felt  the  flush  extending  to  her  cheeks  and 
the  roots  of  her  hair.  This  was  intolerable. 

"Christie !" 

It  was  her  sister  emerging  from  the  wood  to  seek  her. 
In  another  moment  she  was  at  her  side. 

"We  thought  you  were  following,"  said  Jessie.  "Good 
heavens  !  how  you  look !  What  has  happened  ?" 

"Nothing.  I  met  Mr.  Kearney  a  moment  ago  on  the 
trail.  He  is  going  away,  and — and — "  She  stopped, 
furious  and  flushing. 

"And,"  said  Jessie,  with  a  burst  of  merriment,  "he  told 
you  at  last  he  loved  you.  Oh,  Christie !" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  abrupt  departure  of  George  Kearney  from  Devil's 
Ford  excited  but  little  interest  in  the  community,  and  was 
soon  forgotten.  It  was  generally  attributed  to  differ 
ences  between  himself  and  his  partners  on  the  question 
of  further  outlay  of  their  earnings  on  mining  improve 
ments — he  and  Philip  Carr  alone  representing  a  san 
guine  minority  whose  faith  in  the  future  of  the  mine 
accepted  any  risks.  It  was  alleged  by  some  that  he  had 
sold  out  to  his  brother ;  it  was  believed  by  others  that  he 
had  simply  gone  to  Sacramento  to  borrow  money  on  his 
share,  in  order  to  continue  the  improvements  on  his  own 
responsibility.  The  partners  themselves  were  uncom 
municative  ;  even  Whiskey  Dick,  who  since  his  remark 
able  social  elevation  had  become  less  oracular,  much  to 
his  own  astonishment,  contributed  nothing  to  the  gossip 
except  a  suggestion  that  as  the  fiery  temper  of  George 
Kearney  brooked  no  opposition,  even  from  his  brother, 
it  was  better  they  should  separate  before  the  estrange 
ment  became  serious. 


128  DEVIL'S    FORD 

Mr.  Carr  did  not  disguise  his  annoyance  at  the  loss  of 
his  young  disciple  and  firm  ally.  But  an  unlucky  allu 
sion  to  his  previous  remarks  on  Kearney's  attentions  to 
Jessie,  and  a  querulous  regret  that  he  had  permitted  a 
disruption  of  their  social  intimacy,  brought  such  an  omi 
nous  and  frigid  opposition,  not  only  from  Christie,  but 
even  the  frivolous  Jessie  herself,  that  Carr  sank  back  in 
a  crushed  and  terrified  silence.  "I  only  meant  to  say," 
he  stammered  after  a  pause,  in  which  he,  however,  re 
sumed  his  aggrieved  manner,  "that  Fairfax  seems  to 
come  here  still,  and  he  is  not  such  a  particular  friend 
of  mine." 

"But  she  is — and  has  your  interest  entirely  at  heart," 
said  Jessie,  stoutly,  "and  he  only  comes  here  to  tell  us 
how  things  are  going  on  at  the  works." 

"And  criticise  your  father,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Carr, 
with  an  attempt  at  jocularity  that  did  not,  however,  dis 
guise  an  irritated  suspiciousness.  "He  really  seems  to 
have  supplanted  me  as  he  has  poor  Kearney  in  your 
estimation." 

"Now,  father,"  said  Jessie,  suddenly  seizing  him  by 
the  shoulders  in  affected  indignation,  but  really  to  con 
ceal  a  certain  embarrassment  that  sprang  quite  as  much 
from  her  sister's  quietly  observant  eye  as  her  father's 
speech,  "you  promised  to  let  this  ridiculous  discussion 
drop.  You  will  make  me  and  Christie  so  nervous  that 
we  will  not  dare  to  open  the  door  to  a  visitor,  until  he 
declares  his  innocence  of  any  matrimonial  intentions. 
You  don't  want  to  give  color  to  the  gossip  that  agree 
ment  with  your  views  about  the  improvements  is  neces 
sary  to  getting  on  with  us." 

"Who  dares  talk  such  rubbish?"  said  Carr,  redden 
ing;  "is  that  the  kind  of  gossip  that  Fairfax  brings 
here?" 

"Hardly,  when  it's  known  that  he  don't  quite  agree 
with  you,  and  does  come  here.  That's  the  best  denial 
of  the  gossip." 

Christie,  who  had  of  late  loftily  ignored  these  dis 
cussions,  waited  until  her  father  had  taken  his  depar 
ture. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  129 

"Then  that  is  the  reason  why  you  still  see  Mr.  Mun- 
roe,  after  what  you  said,"  she  remarked  quietly  to 
Jessie. 

Jessie,  who  would  have  liked  to  escape  with  her  father, 
was  obliged  to  pause  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  with 
a  pretty  assumption  of  blank  forgetfulness  in  her  blue 
eyes  and  lifted  eyebrows. 

"Said  what?     when?"     she  asked  vacantly. 

"When — when  Mr.  Kearney  that  day — in  the  woods — 
went  away,"  said  Christie,  faintly  coloring. 

"Oh!  that  day,"  said  Jessie  briskly;  "the  day  he  just 
gloved  your  hand  with  kisses,  and  then  fled  wildly  into 
the  forest  to  conceal  his  emotion."  . 

"The  day  he  behaved  very  foolishly,"  said  Christie, 
with  reproachful  calmness,  that  did  not,  however,  pre 
vent  a  suspicion  of  indignant  moisture  in  her  eyes — 
"when  you  explained" — 

"That  it  wasn't  meant  for  me,"  interrupted  Jessie. 

"That  it  was  to  you  that  Mr.  Munroe's  attentions  were 
directed.  And  then  we  agreed  that  it  was  better  to  pre 
vent  any  further  advances  of  this  kind  by  avoiding  any 
familiar  relations  with  either  of  them." 

"Yes,"  said  Jessie,  "I  remember ;  but  you're  not  con 
founding  my  seeing  Fairfax  occasionally  now  with  that 
sort  of  thing.  He  doesn't  kiss  my  hand  like  anything," 
she  added,  as  if  in  abstract  reflection. 

"Nor  run  away,  either,"  suggested  the  trodden  worm, 
turning. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence. 

"Do  you  know  we  are  nearly  out  of  coffee?"  said 
Jessie  choking,  but  moving  towards  the  door  with 
Spartan-like  calmness. 

"Yes.  And  something  must  be  done  this  very  day 
about  the  washing,"  said  Christie,  with  suppressed  emo 
tion,  going  towards  the  opposite  entrance. 

Tears  stood  in  each  other's  eyes  with  this  terrible  ex 
change  of  domestic  confidences.  Nevertheless,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  they  deliberately  turned  again,  and, 
facing  each  other  with  frightful  calmness,  left  the  room 
by  purposeless  and  deliberate  exits  other  than  those  they 

5  v.  2 


130  DEVIL'S    FORD 

had  contemplated — a  crushing  abnegation  of  self,  that, 
to  some  extent,  relieved  their  surcharged  feelings. 

Meantime  the  material  prosperity  of  Devil's  Ford  in 
creased,  if  a  prosperity  based  upon  no  visible  foundation 
but  the  confidences  and  hopes  of  its  inhabitants  could  be 
called  material.  Few,  if  any,  stopped  to  consider  that 
the  improvements,  buildings,  and  business  were  simply 
the  outlay  of  capital  brought  from  elsewhere,  and  as  yet 
the  settlement  or  town,  as  it  was  now  called,  had  neither 
produced  nor  exported  capital  of  itself  equal  to  half  the 
amount  expended.  It  was  true  that  some  land  was  cul 
tivated  on  the  further  slope,  some  mills  erected  and  lum 
ber  furnished  from  the  inexhaustible  forest;  but  the 
consumers  were  the  inhabitants  themselves,  who  paid 
for  their  produce  in  borrowed  capital  or  unlimited  credit. 
It  was  never  discovered  that  while  all  roads  led  to  Devil's 
Ford,  Devil's  Ford  led  to  nowhere.  The  difficulties  over 
come  in  getting  things  into  the  settlement  were  never 
surmounted  for  getting  things  out  of  it.  The  lumber 
was  practically  valueless  for  export  to  other  settlements 
across  the  mountain  roads,  which  were  equally  rich  in 
timber.  The  theory  so  enthusiastically  held  by  the 
original  locators,  that  Devil's  Ford  was  a  vast  sink  that 
had,  through  ages,  exhausted  and  absorbed  the  trickling 
wealth  of  the  adjacent  hills  and  valleys,  was  suffering 
an  ironical  corroboration. 

One  morning  it  was  known  that  work  was  stopped  at 
the  Devil's  Ford  Ditch — temporarily  only,  it  was  alleged, 
and  many  of  the  old  workmen  simply  had  their  labor  for 
the  present  transferred  to  excavating  the  river  banks, 
and  the  collection  of  vast  heaps  of  "pay  gravel."  Speci 
mens  from  these  mounds,  taken  from  different  localities, 
and  at  different  levels,  were  sent  to  San  Francisco  for 
more  rigid  assay  and  analysis.  It  was  believed  that  this 
would  establish  the  fact  of  the  permanent  richness  of 
the  drifts,  and  not  only  justify  past  expenditure,  but  a 
renewed  outlay  of  credit  and  capital.  The  suspension 
of  engineering  work  gave  Mr.  Carr  an  opportunity  to 
visit  San  Francisco  on  general  business  of  the  mine, 
which  could  not,  however,  prevent  him  from  arranging 


DEVIL'S    FORD  181 

further  combinations  with  capital.  His  two  daughters 
accompanied  him.  It  offered  an  admirable  opportunity 
for  a  shopping  expedition,  a  change  of  scene,  and  a 
peaceful  solution  of  their  perplexing  and  anomalous  so 
cial  relations  with  Devil's  Ford.  In  the  first  flush  of 
gratitude  to  their  father  for  this  opportune  holiday,  some 
thing  of  harmony  had  been  restored  to  the  family  circle 
that  had  of  late  been  shaken  by  discord. 

But  their  sanguine  hopes  of  enjoyment  were  not  en 
tirely  fulfilled.  Both  Jessie  and  Christie  were  obliged 
to  confess  to  a  certain  disappointment  in  the  aspect  of 
the  civilization  they  were  now  reentering.  They  at  first 
attributed  it  to  the  change  in  their  own  habits  during 
the  last  three  months,  and  their  having  become  bar 
barous  and  countrified  in  their  seclusion.  Certainly  in 
the  matter  of  dress  they  were  behind  the  fashions  as 
revealed  in  Montgomery  Street.  But  when  the  brief 
solace  afforded  them  by  the  modiste  and  dressmaker  was 
past,  there  seemed  little  else  to  be  gained.  They  missed 
at  first,  I  fear,  the  chivalrous  and  loyal  devotion  that  had 
only  amused  them  at  Devil's  Ford,  and  were  the  more  in 
clined,  I  think,  to  distrust  the  conscious  and  more  civil 
ized  gallantry  of  the  better  dressed  and  more  carefully 
presented  men  they  met.  For  it  must  be  admitted  that,  for 
obvious  reasons,  their  criticisms  were  at  first  confined 
to  the  sex  they  had  been  most  in  contact  with.  They 
could  not  help  noticing  that  the  men  were  more  eager, 
annoyingly  feverish,  and  self-asserting  in  their  superior 
elegance  and  external  show  than  their  old  associates 
were  in  their  frank,  unrestrained  habits.  It  seemed  to 
them  that  the  five  millionaires  of  Devil's  Ford,  in  their 
radical  simplicity  and  thoroughness,  were  perhaps  nearer 
the  type  of  true  gentlemanhood  than  these  citizens  who 
imitated  a  civilization  they  were  unable  yet  to  reach. 

The  women  simply  frightened  them,  as  being,  even 
more  than  the  men,  demonstrative  and  excessive  in  their 
fine  looks,  their  fine  dresses,  their  extravagant  demand 
for  excitement.  In  less  than  a  week  they  found  them 
selves  regretting — not  the  new  villa  on  the  slope  of 
Devil's  Ford,  which  even  in  its  own  bizarre  fashion  was 


132  DEVIL'S    FORD 

exceeded  by  the  barbarous  ostentation  of  the  villas  an3 
private  houses  around  them — but  the  double  cabin  under 
the  trees,  which  now  seemed  to  them  almost  aristocratic 
in  its  grave  simplicity  and  abstention.  In  the  mysterious 
forests  of  masts  that  thronged  the  city's  quays  they  re 
called  the  straight  shafts  of  the  pines  on  Devil's  slopes, 
only  to  miss  the  sedate  repose  and  infinite  calm  that  used 
to  environ  them.  In  the  feverish,  pulsating  life  of  the 
young  metropolis  they  often  stopped  oppressed,  giddy, 
and  choking;  the  roar  of  the  streets  and  thoroughfares 
was  meaningless  to  them,  except  to  revive  strange  memo 
ries  of  the  deep,  unvarying  monotone  of  the  evening 
wind  over  their  humbler  roof  on  the  Sierran  hillside. 
Civic  bred  and  nurtured  as  they  were,  the  recurrence  of 
these  sensations  perplexed  and  alarmed  them. 

"It  seems  so  perfectly  ridiculous,"  said  Jessie,  "for  us 
to  feel  as  out  of  place  here  as  that  Pike  County  servant 
girl  in  Sacramento  who  had  never  seen  a  steamboat  be 
fore;  do  you  know,  I  quite  had  a  turn  the  other  day  at 
seeing  a  man  on  the  Stockton  wharf  in  a  red  shirt,  with 
a  rifle  on  his  shoulder." 

"And  you  wanted  to  go  and  speak  to  him?"  said 
Christie,  with  a  sad  smile. 

"No,  that's  just  it;  I  felt  awfully  hurt  and  injured  that 
he  did  not  come  up  and  speak  to  me!  I  wonder  if  we 
got  any  fever  or  that  sort  of  thing  up  there;  it  makes 
one  quite  superstitious." 

Christie  did  not  reply;  more  than  once  before  she  had 
felt  that  inexplicable  misgiving.  It  had  sometimes 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  been  quite  herself 
since  that  memorable  night  when  she  had  slipped  out 
of  their  sleeping-cabin,  and  stood  alone  in  the  gracious 
and  commanding  presence  of  the  woods  and  hills.  In  the 
solitude  of  night,  with  the  hum  of  the  great  city  rising 
below  her — at  times  even  in  theatres  or  crowded  as 
semblies  of  men  and  women — she  forgot  herself,  and 
again  stood  in  the  weird  brilliancy  of  that  moonlight 
night  in  mute  worship  at  the  foot  of  that  slowly-rising 
mystic  altar  of  piled  terraces,  hanging  forests,  and  lifted 
plateaus  that  climber  forever  to  the  lonely  skies,  Again 


DEVIL'S   FORD  133 

she  felt  before  her  the  expanding  and  opening  arms  of 
the  protecting  woods.  Had  they  really  closed  upon  her 
in  some  pantheistic  embrace  that  made  her  a  part  of 
them?  Had  she  been  baptized  in  that  moonlight  as  a 
child  of  the  great  forest?  It  was  easy  to  believe  in  the 
myths  of  the  poets  of  an  idyllic  life  under  those  trees, 
where,  free  from  conventional  restrictions,  one  loved  and 
was  loved.  If  she,  with  her  own  worldly  experience, 
could  think  of  this  now,  why  might  not  George  Kearney 
have  thought?  .  .  .  She  stopped,  and  found  herself 
blushing  even  in  the  darkness.  As  the  thought  and 
blush  were  the  usual  sequel  of  her  reflections,  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  they  may  have  been  at  times  the  impelling 
cause. 

Mr.  Carr,  however,  made  up  for  his  daughters'  want  of 
sympathy  with  metropolitan  life.  To  their  astonishment, 
he  not  only  plunged  into  the  fashionable  gayeties  and 
amusements  of  the  town,  but  in  dress  and  manner  as 
sumed  the  role  of  a  leader  of  society.  The  invariable 
answer  to  their  half-humorous  comment  was  the  neces 
sities  of  the  mine,  and  the  policy  of  frequenting  the  com 
pany  of  capitalists,  to  enlist  their  support  and  confidence. 
There  was  something  in  this  so  unlike  their  father,  that 
what  at  any  other  time  they  would  have  hailed  as  a  re 
lief  to  his  habitual  abstraction  now  half  alarmed  them. 
Yet  he  was  not  dissipated — he  did  not  drink  nor  gamble. 
There  certainly  did  not  seem  any  harm  in  his  frequenting 
the  society  of  ladies,  with  a  gallantry  that  appeared  to 
be  forced  and  a  pleasure  that  to  their  critical  eyes  was 
certainly  apocryphal.  He  did  not  drag  his  daughters 
into  the  mixed  society  of  that  period ;  he  did  not  press 
upon  them  the  company  of  those  he  most  frequented, 
and  whose  accepted  position  in  that  little  world  of 
fashion  was  considered  equal  to  their  own.  When  Jessie 
strongly  objected  to  the  pronounced  manners  of  a  certain 
widow,  whose  actual  present  wealth  and  pecuniary  in 
fluence  condoned  for  a  more  uncertain  prehistoric  past, 
Mr.  Carr  did  not  urge  a  further  acquaintance.  "As  long 
as  you're  not  thinking  of  marrying  again,  papa,"  Jessie 
had  said  finally,  "I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  our  knowing; 


134  DEVIL'S    FORD 

her."  "But  suppose  I  were,"  had  replied  Mr.  Carr.  with 
affected  humor.  "Then  you  certainly  wouldn't  care  for 
any  one  like  her,"  his  daughter  had  responded  trium 
phantly.  Mr.  Carr  smiled,  and  dropped  the  subject,  but  it 
is  probable  that  his  daughters'  want  of  sympathy  with 
his  acquaintances  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  his 
social  prestige.  A  gentleman  in  all  his  relations  and 
under  all  circumstances,  even  his  cold  scientific  abstrac 
tion  was  provocative;  rich  men  envied  his  lofty  igno 
rance  of  the  smaller  details  of  money-making,  even  while 
they  mistrusted  his  judgment.  A  man  still  well  pre 
served,  and  free  from  weakening  vices,  he  was  a  danger 
ous  rival  to  younger  and  faster  San  Francisco,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  sex,  who  knew  how  to  value  a  repose  they 
did  not  themselves  possess. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Carr  announced  his  intention  of  proceed 
ing  to  Sacramento,  on  further  business  of  the  mine, 
leaving  his  two  daughters  in  the  family  of  a  wealthy 
friend  until  he  should  return  for  them.  He  opposed  their 
ready  suggestion  to  return  to  Devil's  Ford  with  a  new 
and  unnecessary  inflexibility :  he  even  met  their  com 
promise  to  accompany  him  to  Sacramento  with  equal 
decision. 

"You  will  be  only  in  my  way,"  he  said  curtly.  "Enjoy 
yourselves  here  while  you  can." 

Thus  left  to  themselves,  they  tried  to  accept  his  ad 
vice.  Possibly  some  slight  reaction  to  their  previous 
disappointment  may  have  already  set  in;  perhaps  they 
felt  any  distraction  to  be  a  relief  to  their  anxiety  about 
their  father.  They  went  out  more ;  they  frequented  con 
certs  and  parties;  they  accepted,  with  their  host  and 
his  family,  an  invitation  to  one  of  those  opulent  and 
barbaric  entertainments  with  which  a  noted  San  Fran 
cisco  millionaire  distracted  his  rare  moments  of  reflec 
tion  in  his  gorgeous  palace  on  the  hills.  Here  they  could 
at  least  be  once  more  in  the  country  they  loved,  albeit  of 
a  milder  and  less  heroic  type,  and  a  little  degraded  by 
the  overlapping  tinsel  and  scattered  spangles  of  the 
palace. 

It  was  a  three  days'  fete;  the  style  and  choice  of 


DEVIL'S    FORD  135 

amusements  left  to  the  guests,  and  an  equal  and  active 
participation  by  no  means  necessary  or  indispensable. 
Consequently,  when  Christie  and  Jessie  Carr  proposed 
a  ride  through  the  adjacent  canon  on  the  second  morn 
ing,  they  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  horses  in  the  well- 
furnished  stables  of  their  opulent  entertainers,  nor 
cavaliers  among  the  other  guests,  who  were  too  happy 
to  find  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  two  pretty  girls  who 
were  supposed  to  be  abnormally  fastidious  and  refined. 
Christie's  escort  was  a  good-natured  young  banker, 
shrewd  enough  to  avoid  demonstrative  attentions,  and 
•  lucky  enough  to  interest  her  during  the  ride  with  his 
clear  and  half-humorous  reflections  on  some  of  the  busi 
ness  speculations  of  the  day.  If  his  ideas  were  occa 
sionally  too  clever,  and  not  always  consistent  with  a 
high  sense  of  honor,  she  was  none  the  less  interested 
to  know  the  ethics  of  that  world  of  speculation  into 
which  her  father  had  plunged,  and  the  more  convinced, 
with  mingled  sense  of  pride  and  anxiety,  that  his  still 
dominant  gentlemanhood  would  prevent  his  coping  with 
it  on  equal  terms.  Nor  could  she  help  contrasting 
the  conversation  of  the  sharp-witted  man  at  her  side 
with  what  she  still  remembered  of  the  vague,  touching, 
boyish  enthusiasm  of  the  millionaires  of  Devil's  Ford. 
Had  her  escort  guessed  the  result  of  this  contrast,  he 
would  hardly  have  been  as  gratified  as  he  was  with  the 
grave  attention  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

The  fascination  of  a  gracious  day  and  the  leafy  soli 
tude  of  the  canon  led  them  to  prolong  their  ride  beyond 
the  proposed  limit,  and  it  became  necessary  towards 
sunset  for  them  to  seek  some  shorter  cut  home. 

"There's  a  vaquero  in  yonder  field,"  said  Christie's 
escort,  who  was  riding  with  her  a  little  in  advance  of  the 
others,  "and  those  fellows  know  every  trail  that  a  horse 
can  follow.  I'll  ride  on,  intercept  him,  and  try  my  Span 
ish  on  him.  If  I  miss  him,  as  he's  galloping  on,  you 
might  try  your  hand  on  him  yourself.  He'll  understand 
your  eyes,  Miss  Carr,  in  any  language." 

As  he  dashed  away,  to  cover  his  first  audacity  of  com 
pliment,  Christie  lifted  the  eyes  thus  apostrophized  to 


136  DEVIL'S    FORD 

the  opposite  field.  The  vaquero,  who  was  chasing  some 
cattle,  was  evidently  too  preoccupied  to  heed  the  shouts 
of  her  companion,  and  wheeling  round  suddenly  to  in 
tercept  one  of  the  deviating  fugitives,  permitted  Christie's 
escort  to  dash  past  him  before  that  gentleman 
could  rein  in  his  excited  steed.  This  brought  the 
vaquero  directly  in  her  path.  Perceiving  her,  he  threw 
his  horse  back  on  its  haunches,  to  prevent  a  collision. 
Christie  rode  up  to  him,  suddenly  uttered  a  cry,  and 
halted.  For  before  her,  sunburnt  in  cheek  and  throat, 
darker  in  the  free  growth  of  moustache  and  curling  hair, 
clad  in  the  coarse,  picturesque  finery  of  his  class,  un 
disguised  only  in  his  boyish  beauty,  sat  George  Kearney. 

The  blood,  that  had  forsaken  her  astonished  face, 
rushed  as  quickly  back.  His  eyes,  which  had  suddenly 
sparkled  with  an  electrical  glow,  sank  before  hers.  His 
hand  dropped,  and  his  cheek  flushed  with  a  dark  em 
barrassment. 

"You  here,  Mr.  Kearney  ?  How  strange  ! — but  how 
glad  I  am  to  meet  you  again !" 

She  tried  to  smile ;  her  voice  trembled,  and  her  little 
hand  shook  as  she  extended  it  to  him. 

He  raised  his  dark  eyes  quickly,  and  impulsively 
urged  his  horse  to  her  side.  But,  as  if  suddenly  awaken 
ing  to  the  reality  of  the  situation,  he  glanced  at  her 
hurriedly,  down  at  his  barbaric  finery,  and  threw  a 
searching  look  towards  her  escort. 

In  an  instant  Christie  saw  the  infelicity  of  her  posi 
tion,  and  its  dangers.  The  words  of  Whiskey  Dick, 
"He  wouldn't  stand  that,"  flashed  across  her  mind. 
There  was  no  time  to  lose.  The  banker  had  already 
gained  control  over  his  horse,  and  was  approaching 
them,  all  unconscious  of  the  fixed  stare  with  which 
George  was  regarding  him.  Christie  hastily  seized  the 
hand  which  he  had  allowed  to  fall  at  his  side,  and  said 
quickly. — 

"Will  you  ride  with  me  a  little  way,  Mr.  Kearney?" 

He  turned  the  same  searching  look  upon  her.  She  met 
it  clearly  and  steadily;  he  even  thought  reproachfully. 

"Do !"   she  said  hurriedly.     "I   ask  it   as   a   favor.     I 


DEVIL'S    FORD  137 

want  to  speak  to  you.  Jessie  and  I  are  here  alone. 
Father  is  away.  You  are  one  of  our  oldest  friends." 

He  hesitated.  She  turned  to  the  astonished  young 
banker,  who  rode  up. 

"I  have  just  met  an  old  friend.  Will  you  please  ride 
back  as  quickly  as  you  can,  and  tell  Jessie  that  Mr. 
Kearney  is  here,  and  ask  her  to  join  us?" 

She  watched  her  dazed  escort,  still  speechless  from 
the  spectacle  of  the  fastidious  Miss  Carr  tete-a-tete  with 
a  common  Mexican  vaqucro,  gallop  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  canon,  and  then  turned  to  George. 

"Now  take  me  home,  the  shortest  way,  as  quick  as 
you  can." 

"Home?"  echoed  George. 

"I  mean  to  Mr.  Prince's  house.  Quick !  before  they 
can  come  up  to  us." 

He  mechanically  put  spurs  to  his  horse;  she  followed. 
They  presently  struck  into  a  trail  that  soon  diverged 
again  into  a  disused  logging  track  through  the  woods. 

"This  is  the  short  cut  to  Prince's,  by  two  miles,"  he 
said,  as  they  entered  the  woods. 

As  they  were  still  galloping,  without  exchanging  a 
word,  Christie  began  to  slacken  her  speed ;  George  did 
the  same.  They  were  safe  from  intrusion  at  the  present, 
even  if  the  others  had  found  the  short  cut.  Christie, 
bold  and  self-reliant  a  moment  ago,  suddenly  found  her 
self  growing  weak  and  embarrassed.  What  had  she 
done? 

She  checked  her  horse  suddenly. 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  wait  for  them,"  she  said 
timidly. 

George  had  not  raised  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"You  said  you  wanted  to  hurry  home,"  he  replied 
gently,  passing  his  hand  along  his  mustang's  velvety 
neck,  "and — and  you  had  something  to  say  to  me." 

"Certainly,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint  laugh.  "I'm 
so  astonished  at  meeting  you  here.  I'm  quite  bewildered. 
You  are  living  here;  you  have  forsaken  us  to  buy  a 
ranche  ?"  she  continued,  looking  at  him  attentively. 

His  brow  colored  slightly. 


138  DEVIL'S    FORD 

"No,  I'm  living  here,  but  I  have  bought  no  ranche. 
I'm  only  a  hired  man  on  somebody  else's  ranche,  to 
look  after  the  cattle." 

He  saw  her  beautiful  eyes  fill  with  astonishment  and — 
something  else.  His  brow  cleared;  he  went  on,  with  his 
old  boyish  laugh: 

"No,  Miss  Carr.  The  fact  is,  I'm  dead  broke.  I've 
lost  everything  since  I  saw  you  last.  But  as  I  know  how 
to  ride,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  work,  I  manage  to  keep 
along." 

"You  have  lost  money  in — in  the  mines  ?"  said  Christie 
suddenly. 

"No" — he  replied  quickly,  evading  her  eyes.  "My 
brother  has  my  interest,  you  know.  I've  been  foolish 
on  my  own  account  solely.  You  know  I'm  rather  in 
clined  to  that  sort  of  thing.  But  as  long  as  my  folly 
don't  affect  others,  I  can  stand  it." 

"But  it  may  affect  others — and  they  may  not  think 
of  it  as  folly — "  She  stopped  short,  confused  by  his 
brightening  color  and  eyes.  "I  mean —  Oh,  Mr. 
Kearney,  I  want  you  to  be  frank  with  me.  I  know  noth 
ing  of  business,  but  I  know  there  has  been  trouble  about 
the  mine  at  Devil's  Ford.  Tell  me  honestly,  has  my 
father  anything  to  do  with  it?  If  I  thought  that  through 
any  imprudence  of  his,  you  had  suffered — if  I  believed 
that  you  could  trace  any  misfortune  of  yours  to  him — to 
us — I  should  never  forgive  myself" — she  stopped  and 
flashed  a  single  look  at  him — "I  should  never  forgive 
you  for  abandoning  us." 

The  look  of  pain  which  had  at  first  shown  itself  in  his 
face,  which  never  concealed  anything,  passed,  and  a 
quick  smile  followed  her  feminine  anticlimax. 

"Miss  Carr,"  he  said,  with  boyish  eagerness,  "if  any 
man  suggested  to  me  that  your  father  wasn't  the  bright 
est  and  best  of  his  kind — too  wise  and  clever  for  the 
fools  about  him  to  understand — I'd — I'd  shoot  him." 

Confused  ly  his  ready  and  gracious  disclaimer  of  what 
she  had  not  intended  to  say,  there  was  nothing  left  for 
her  but  to  rush  upon  what  she  really  intended  to  say, 
with  what  she  felt  was  shameful  precipitation. 


DEVIL'S   FORD  139 

"One  word  more,  Mr.  Kearney,"  she  began,  looking 
down,  but  feeling  the  color  come  to  her  face  as  she 
spoke.  "When  you  spoke  to  me  the  day  you  left,  you 
must  have  thought  me  hard  and  cruel.  When  I  tell 
you  that  I  thought  you  were  alluding  to  Jessie  and  some 
feeling  you  had  for  her — " 

"For  Jessie  !"  echoed  George. 

"You  will  understand  that — that — " 

"That  what?"  said  George,  drawing  nearer  to  her. 

"That  I  was  only  speaking  as  she  might  have  spoken 
had  you  talked  to  her  of  me,"  added  Christie  hurriedly, 
slightly  backing  her  horse  away  from  him. 

But  this  was  not  so  easy,  as  George  was  the  better 
rider,  and  by  an  imperceptible  movement  of  his  wrist 
and  foot  had  glued  his  horse  to  her  side.  "He  will  go 
now,"  she  had  thought,  but  he  didn't. 

"We  must  ride  on,"  she  suggested  faintly. 

"No,"  he  said  with  a  sudden  dropping  of  his  boyish 
manner  and  a  slight  lifting  of  his  head.  "We  must 
ride  together  no  further,  Miss  Carr.  I  must  go  back  to 
the  work  I  am  hired  to  do,  and  you  must  go  on  with 
your  party,  whom  I  hear  coming.  But  when  we  part 
here  you  must  bid  me  good-by — not  as  Jessie's  sister — 
but  as  Christie — the  one — the  only  woman  that  I  love, 
or  that  I  ever  have  loved." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  With  the  recollection  of  their 
previous  parting,  she  tremblingly  advanced  her  own. 
He  took  it,  but  did  not  raise  it  to  his  lips.  And  it  was 
she  who  found  herself  half  confusedly  retaining  his 
hand  in  hers,  until  she  dropped  it  with  a  blush. 

"Then  is  this  the  reason  you  give  for  deserting 
us  as  you  have  deserted  Devil's  Ford?"  she  said  coldly. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  with  a  strange  smile,  and 
said,  "Yes,"  wheeled  his  horse,  and  disappeared  in  the 
forest. 

He  had  left  her  thus  abruptly  once  before,  kissed, 
blushing,  and  indignant.  He  was  leaving  her  now,  un- 
kissed,  but  white  and  indignant.  Yet  she  was  so  self- 
possessed  when  the  party  joined  her,  that  the  singular 
rencontre  and  her  explanation  of  the  stranger's  sudden 


140  DEVIL'S    FORD 

departure  excited  no  further  comment.  Only  Jessie 
managed  to  whisper  in  her  ear, — 

"I  hope  you  are  satisfied  now  that  it  wasn't  me  he 
meant  ?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Christie  coldly. 


CHAPTER    VII 

A  FEW  days  after  the  girls  had  returned  to  San 
Francisco,  they  received  a  letter  from  their  father.  His 
business,  he  wrote,  would  detain  him  in  Sacramento 
some  days  longer.  There  was  no  reason  why  they  should 
return  to  Devil's  Ford  in  the  heat  of  the  summer ;  their 
host  had  written  to  beg  him  to  allow  them  a  more  ex 
tended  visit,  and,  if  they  were  enjoying  themselves,  he 
thought  it  would  be  well  not  to  disoblige  an  old  friend. 
He  had  heard  they  had  a  pleasant  visit  to  Mr.  Prince's 
place,  and  that  a  certain  young  banker  had  been  very 
attentive  to  Christie. 

"Do  you  know  what  all  this  means,  dear?"  asked 
Jessie,  who  had  been  watching  her  sister  with  an  un 
usually  grave  face. 

Christie  whose  thoughts  had  wandered  from  the  letter, 
replied  carelessly, — 

"I  suppose  it  means  that  we  are  to  wait  here  until 
father  sends  for  us." 

"It  means  a  good  deal  more.  It  means  that  papa 
has  had  another  reverse ;  it  means  that  the  assay  has 
turned  out  badly  for  the  mine — that  the  further  they 
go  from  the  flat  the  worse  it  gets — that  all  the  gold 
they  will  probably  ever  see  at  Devil's  Ford  is  what 
they  have  already  found  or  will  find  on  the  flat ;  it 
means  that  all  Devil's  Ford  is  only  a  'pocket,'  and  not 
a  'lead.' "  She  stopped,  with  unexpected  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"Who  told  you  this?"  asked  Christie  breathlessly. 

"Fairfax — Mr.  Munroe,"  stammered  her  sister,  "writes 
to  me  as  if  we  already  knew  it — tells  me  not  to  be 
alarmed,  that  it  isn't  so  bad — and  all  that." 


DEVIL'S    FORD  141 

"How  long  has  this  happened,  Jessie?"  said  Christie, 
taking  her  hand,  with  a  white  but  calm  face. 

"Nearly  ever  since  we've  been  here,  I  suppose.  It 
must  be  so,  for  he  says  poor  papa  is  still  hopeful  of  doing 
something  yet." 

"And  Mr.  Munroe  writes  to  you?"  said  Christie  ab 
stractedly. 

"Of  course,"  said  Jessie  quickly.  "He  feels  interested 
in — us." 

"Nobody  tells  me  anything,"  said  Christie. 

"Didn't—" 

"No,"  said  Christie  bitterly. 

"What  on  earth  did  you  talk  about?  But  people  don't 
confide  in  you  because  they're  afraid  of  you.  You're 
so — " 

"So  what?" 

"So  gently  patronizing,  and  so  'I-don't-suppose-you- 
can-help-it,-poor-thing,'  in  your  general  style,"  said 
Jessie,  kissing  her.  "There !  I  only  wish  I  was  like 
you.  What  do  you  say  if  we  write  to  father  that  we'll 
go  back  to  Devil's  Ford?  Mr.  Munroe  thinks  we  will 
be  of  service  there  just  now.  If  the  men  are  dissatis 
fied,  and  think  we're  spending  money — " 

"I'm  afraid  Mr.  Munroe  is  hardly  a  disinterested  ad 
viser.  At  least,  I  don't  think  it  would  look  quite  decent 
for  you  to  fly  back  without  your  father,  at  his  sugges 
tion,"  said  Christie  coldly.  "He  is  not  the  only  partner. 
We  are  spending  no  money.  Besides,  we  have  engaged  to 
go  to  Mr.  Prince's  again  next  week." 

"As  you  like,  dear,"  said  Jessie,  turning  away  to  hide 
a  faint  smile. 

Nevertheless,  when  they  returned  from  their  visit  to 
Mr.  Prince's,  and  one  or  two  uneventful  rides,  Christie 
looked  grave.  It  was  only  a  few  days  later  that  Jessie 
burst  upon  her  one  morning. 

"You  were  saying  that  nobody  ever  tells  you  any 
thing.  Well,  here's  your  chance.  Whiskey  Dick  is 
below." 

"Whiskey  Dick?"  repeated  Christie.  "What  does  he 
want?" 


142  DEVIL'S    FORD 

"You,  love.  Who  else?  You  know  he  always  scorns 
me  as  not  being  high-toned  and  elegant  enough  for  his 
social  confidences.  He  asked  for  you  only." 

With  an  uneasy  sense  of  some  impending  revelation, 
Christie  descended  to  the  drawing-room.  As  she  opened 
the  door,  a  strong  flavor  of  that  toilet  soap  and  eau  de 
Cologne  with  which  Whiskey  Dick  was  in  the  habit 
of  gracefully  effacing  the  traces  of  dissipation  made 
known  his  presence.  In  spite  of  a  new  suit  of  clothes, 
whose  pristine  folds  refused  to  adapt  themselves  entirely 
to  the  contour  of  his  figure,  he  was  somewhat  subdued 
by  the  unexpected  elegance  of  the  drawing-room  of 
Christie's  host.  But  a  glance  at  Christie's  sad  but 
gracious  face  quickly  reassured  him.  Taking  from  his 
hat  a  three-cornered  parcel,  he  unfolded  a  handsome 
saffrona  rose,  which  he  gravely  presented  to  her.  Hav 
ing  thus  reestablished  his  position,  he  sank  elegantly  into 
a  tete-a-tete  ottoman.  Finding  the  position  inconvenient 
to  face  Christie,  who  had  seated  herself  on  a  chair,  he 
transferred  himself  to  the  other  side  of  the  ottoman,  and 
addressed  her  over  its  back  as  from  a  pulpit. 

"Is  this  really  a  fortunate  accident,  Mr.  Hall,  or  did 
you  try  to  find  us?"  said  Christie  pleasantly. 

"Partly  promiskuss,  and  partly  coincident,  Miss 
Christie,  one  up  and  t'other  down,"  said  Dick  lightly. 
"Work  being  slack  at  present  at  Devil's  Ford,  I  reck'ned 
I'd  take  a  pasear  down  to  'Frisco,  and  dip  into  the 
vortex  o'  fash'nable  society  and  out  again."  He  lightly 
waved  a  new  handkerchief  to  illustrate  his  swallow-like 
intrusion.  "This  yer  minglin'  with  the  bo-tong  is  apt 
to  be  wearisome,  ez  you  and  me  knows,  unless  combined 
with  experience  and  judgment.  So  when  them  boys 
up  there  allows  that  there's  a  little  too  much  fash'nable 
society  and  San  Francisco  capital  and  high-falutin'  about 
the  future  goin'  on  fer  square  surface  mining,  I  sez, 
'Look  yere,  gentlemen,'  sez  I,  'you  don't  see  the  pint. 
The  pint  is  to  get  the  pop'lar  eye  fixed,  so  to  speak,  on 
Devil's  Ford.  When  a  fash'nable  star  rises  above  the 
'Frisco  horizon — like  Miss  Carr — and,  so  to  speak,  daz 
zles  the  gineral  eye,  people  want  to  know  who  she  is. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  143 

And  when  people  say  that's  the  accomplished  daughter 
o'  the  accomplished  superintendent  of  the  Devil's  Ford 
claim — otherwise  known  as  the  Star-eyed  Goddess  o' 
Devil's  Ford — every  eye  is  fixed  on  the  mine,  and  Capital, 
so  to  speak,  tumbles  to  her.'  And  when  they  sez  that 
the  old  man — excuse  my  freedom,  but  that's  the  way  the 
boys  talk  of  your  father,  meaning  no  harm — the  old  man, 
instead  o'  trying  ta  corral  rich  widders — grass  or  other 
wise — to  spend  their  money  on  the  big  works  for  the 
gold  that  ain't  there  yet — should  stay  in  Devil's  Ford 
and  put  all  his  sabe  and  genius  into  grindin'  out  the 
little  gold  that  is  there,  I  sez  to  them  that  it  ain't  your 
father's  style.  'His  style,'  sez  I,  *ez  to  go  in  and  build 
them  works.'  When  they're  done  he  turns  round  to 
Capital,  and  sez  he — 'Look  yer,'  sez  he,  'thar's  all  the 
works  you  want,  first  quality — cost  a  million ;  thar's  all 
the  water  you  want,  onlimited — cost  another  million ; 
thar's  all  the  pay  gravel  you  want  in  and  outer  the 
ground — call  it  two  millions  more.  Now  my  time's  too 
vally'ble ;  my  professhun's  too  high-toned  to  work  mines. 
I  make  'em.  Hand  me  over  a  check  for  ten  millions  and 
call  it  square,  and  work  it  for  yourself.'  So  Capital 
hands  over  the  money  and  waltzes  down  to  run  the 
mine,  and  you  original  locators  walks  round  with  yer 
hands  in  yer  pockets  a-top  of  your  six  million  profit, 
and  you  let's  Capital  take  the  work  and  the  respon 
sibility." 

Preposterous  as  this  seemed  from  the  lips  of  Whiskey 
Dick,  Christie  had  a  haunting  suspicion  that  it  was  not 
greatly  unlike  the  theories  expounded  by  the  clever  young 
banker  who  had  been  her  escort.  She  did  not  interrupt 
his  flow  of  reminiscent  criticism ;  when  he  paused  for 
breath,  she  said,  quietly: 

"I  met  Mr.  George  Kearney  the  other  day  in  the 
country." 

Whiskey  Dick  stopped  awkwardly,  glanced  hurriedly 
at  Christie,  and  coughed  behind  his  handkerchief. 

"Mr.  Kearney — eh — er — certengly — yes — er — met  him, 
you  say.  Was  he — er— er — well?" 

"In    health,    yes;   but    otherwise    he    has    lost    every- 


144  DEVIL'S    FORD 

thing,"  said  Christie,  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  embarrassed 
Dick. 

"Yes — er — in  course — in  course — "  continued  Dick, 
nervously  glancing  round  the  apartment  as  if  endeavor 
ing  to  find  an  opening  to  some  less  abrupt  statement  of 
the  fact. 

"And  actually  reduced  to  take  some  menial  employ 
ment,"  added  Christie,  still  regarding  Dick  with  her  clear 
glance. 

"That's  it — that's  just  it,"  said  Dick,  beaming  as  he 
suddenly  found  his  delicate  and  confidential  opportunity. 
"That's  it,  Miss  Christie;  that's  just  what  1  was  sayin' 
to  the  boys.  'Ez  it  the  square  thing,'  sez  I,  'jest  because 
George  hez  happened  to  hypothecate  every  dollar  he  has, 
or  expects  to  hev,  to  put  into  them  works,  only  to  please 
Mr.  Carr,  and  just  because  he  don't  want  to  distress  that 
intelligent  gentleman  by  letting  him  see  he's  dead  broke 
— for  him  to  go  and  demean  himself  and  Devil's  Ford 
by  rushing  away  and  hiring  out  as  a  Mexican  vaquero 
on  Mexican  wages?  Look/  sez  I,  'at  the  disgrace  he 
brings  upon  a  high-toned,  fash'nable  girl,  at  whose  side 
he's  walked  and  danced,  and  passed  rings,  and  senti 
ments,  and  bokays  in  the  changes  o'  the  cotillion  and 
the  mizzourka.  And  wot,'  sez  I,  'if  some  day,  prancing 
along  in  a  fash'nable  cavalcade,  she  all  of  a  suddents 
comes  across  him  drivin'  a  Mexican  steer?'  That's  what 
I  said  to  the  boys.  And  so  you  met  him,  Miss  Christie, 
as  usual,"  continued  Dick,  endeavoring  under  the  appear 
ance  of  a  large  social  experience  to  conceal  an  eager 
anxiety  to  know  the  details — "so  you  met  him ;  and,  in 
course,  you  didn't  let  on  yer  knew  him,  so  to  speak, 
nat'rally,  or  p'raps  you  kinder  like  asked  him  to  fix  your 
saddle-girth,  and  give  him  a  five-dollar  piece — eh?" 

Christie,  who  had  risen  and  gone  to  the  window,  sud 
denly  turned  a  very  pale  face  and  shining  eyes  on  Dick. 

"Mr.  Hall,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  attempt  at  a  smile, 
"we  are  old  friends,  and  I  feel  I  can  ask  you  a  favor. 
You  once  before  acted  as  our  escort — it  was  for  a  short 
but  a  happy  time — will  you  accept  a  larger  trust?  My 
father  is  busy  in  Sacramento  for  the  mine:  will  you, 


DEVIL'S    FOED  145 

without  saying  anything  to  anybody,  take  Jessie  and  me 
back  at  once  to  Devil's  Ford?" 

"Will  I  ?  Miss  Christie,"  said  Dick,  choking  between 
an  intense  gratification  and  a  desire  to  keep  back  its 
vulgar  exhibition,  "I  shall  be  proud !" 

"When  I  say  keep  it  a  secret" — she  hesitated — "I  don't 
mean  that  I  object  to  your  letting  Mr.  Kearney,  if  you 
happen  to  know  where  he  is,  understand  that  we  are 
going  back  to  Devil's  Ford." 

"Cert'nly — nat'rally,"  said  Dick,  waving  his  hand  grace 
fully  ;  "sorter  drop  him  a  line,  saying  that  bizness  of  a 
social  and  delicate  nature — being  the  escort  of  Miss  Chris 
tie  and  Jessie  Carr  to  Devil's  Ford — prevents  my  having 
the  pleasure  of  calling." 

"That  will  do  very  well,  Mr.  Hall,"  said  Christie, 
faintly  smiling  through  her  moist  eyelashes.  "Then  will 
you  go  at  once  and  secure  tickets  for  to-night's  boat, 
and  bring  them  here?  Jessie  and  I  will  arrange  every 
thing  else." 

"Cert'nly,"  said  Dick  impulsively,  and  preparing  to 
take  a  graceful  leave. 

"We'll  be  impatient  until  you  return  with  the  tickets," 
said  Christie  graciously. 

Dick  shook  hands  gravely,  got  as  far  as  the  door,  and 
paused. 

"You  think  it  better  to  take  the  tickets  now?"  he  said 
dubiously. 

"By  all  means,"  said  Christie  impetuously.  "I've  set 
my  heart  on  going  to-night — and  unless  you  secure  berths 
early — " 

"In  course — in  course,"  interrupted  Dick  nervously. 
"But—" 

"But  what?"  said  Christie  impatiently. 

Dick  hesitated,  shut  the  door  carefully,  and,  looking 
round  the  room,  lightly  shook  out  his  handkerchief,  ap 
parently  flicked  away  an  embarrassing  suggestion,  and 
said,  with  a  little  laugh : 

"It's  ridiklous,  perfectly  ridiklous,  Miss  Christie;  but 
not  bein'  in  the  habit  of  carryin'  ready  money,  and  havin' 
omitted  to  cash  a  draft  on  Wells,  Fargo  &  Co. — " 


146  DEVIL'S    FORD 

"Of  course,"  said  Christie  rapidly.  "How  forgetful 
I  am !  Pray  forgive  me,  Mr.  Hall.  I  didn't  think.  I'll 
run  up  and  get  it  from  our  host;  he  will  be  glad  to 
be  our  banker." 

"One  moment,  Miss  Christie,"  said  Dick  lightly,  as  his 
thumb  and  finger  relaxed  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  over 
the  only  piece  of  money  in  the  world  that  had  remained 
to  him  after  his  extravagant  purchase  of  Christie's  saf- 
frona  rose,  "one  moment:  in  this  yer  monetary  trans 
action,  if  you  like,  you  are  at  liberty  to  use  my  name." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

As  Christie  and  Jessie  Carr  looked  from  the  windows 
of  the  coach,  whose  dust-clogged  wheels  were  slowly 
dragging  them,  as  if  reluctant,  nearer  the  last  stage  of 
their  journey  to  Devil's  Ford,  they  were  conscious  of  a 
change  in  the  landscape,  which  they  could  not  entirely 
charge  upon  their  changed  feelings.  The  few  bared  open 
spaces  on  the  upland,  the  long  stretch  of  rocky  ridge 
near  the  summit,  so  vivid  and  so  velvety  during  their 
first  journey,  were  now  burnt  and  yellow;  even  the 
brief  openings  in  the  forest  were  seared  as  if  by  a  hot 
iron  in  the  scorching  rays  of  a  half  year's  sun.  The 
pastoral  slopes  of  the  valley  below  were  cloaked  in  lustre- 
leather  :  the  rare  watercourses  along  the  road  had  faded 
from  the  waiting  eye  and  ear;  it  seemed  as  if  the  long 
and  dry  summer  had  even  invaded  the  close-set  ranks 
of  pines,  and  had  blown  a  simoom  breath  through  the 
densest  woods,  leaving  its  charred  red  ashes  on  every 
leaf  and  spray  along  the  tunnelled  shade.  As  they  leaned 
out  of  the  window  and  inhaled  the  half-dead  spices  of 
the  evergreens,  they  seemed  to  have  entered  the  atmos 
phere  of  some  exhausted  passion — of  some  fierce  excite 
ment  that  was  even  now  slowly  burning  itself  out. 

It  was  a  relief  at  last  to  see  the  straggling  houses  of 
Devil's  Ford  far  below  come  once  more  into  view,  as 
they  rounded  the  shoulder  of  Devil's  Spur  and  began 
the  long  descent.  But  as  they  entered  the  town  a  change 


DEVIL'S    FORD  147 

more  ominous  and  startling  than  the  desiccation  of  the 
landscape  forced  itself  upon  them.  The  town  was  still 
there,  but  where  were  the  inhabitants?  Four  months 
ago  they  had  left  the  straggling  street  thronged  with 
busy  citizens — groups  at  every  corner,  and  a  chaos  of 
merchandise  and  traders  in  the  open  plaza  or  square 
beside  the  Presbyterian  church.  Now  all  was  changed. 
Only  a  few  wayfarers  lifted  their  heads  lazily  as  the 
coach  rattled  by,  crossing  the  deserted  square  littered 
with  empty  boxes,  and  gliding  past  empty  cabins  or 
vacant  shop  windows,  from  which  not  only  familiar  faces, 
but  even  the  window  sashes  themselves,  were  gone.  The 
great  unfinished  serpent-like  flume,  crossing  the  river  on 
gigantic  trestles,  had  advanced  as  far  as  the  town,  stoop 
ing  over  it  like  some  enormous  reptile  that  had  sucked 
its  life  blood  and  was  gorged  with  its  prey. 

Whiskey  Dick,  who  had  left  the  stage  on  the  summit 
to  avail  himself  of  a  shorter  foot  trail  to  the  house, 
that  would  give  him  half  an  hour's  grace  to  make  prep 
arations,  met  them  at  the  stage  office  with  a  buggy.  A 
glance  at  the  young  girls,  perhaps,  convinced  him  that 
the  graces  of  elegant  worldly  conversation  were  out  of 
place  with  the  revelation  he  read  on  their  faces.  Per 
haps,  he,  too,  was  a  trifle  indisposed.  The  short  jour 
ney  to  the  house  was  made  in  profound  silence. 

The  villa  had  been  repainted  and  decorated,  and  it 
looked  fresher,  and  even,  to  their  preoccupied  minds,  ap 
peared  more  attractive  than  ever.  Thoughtful  hands 
had  taken  care  of  the  vines  and  rose-bushes  on  the 
trellises;  water — that  precious  element  in  Devil's  Ford 
— had  not  been  spared  in  keeping  green  through  the 
long  drought  the  plants  which  the  girls  had  so  tenderly 
nurtured.  It  was  the  one  oasis  in  which  the  summer 
still  lingered ;  and  yet  a  singular  sense  of  loss  came 
over  the  girls  as  they  once  more  crossed  its  threshold. 
It  seemed  no  longer  their  own. 

"Ef  I  was  you,  Miss  Christie,  I'd  keep  close  to  the 
house  for  a  day  or  two,  until — until — things  is  settled," 
said  Dick ;  "there's  a  heap  o'  tramps  and  sich  cattle 
trapsin'  round.  P'raps  you  wouldn't  feel  so  lonesome 


148  DEVIL'S    FORD 

if  you  was  nearer  town — for  instance,  'bout  wher'  you 
useter  live." 

"In  the  dear  old  cabin,"  said  Christie  quickly;  "I 
remember  it ;  I  wish  we  were  there  now." 

"Do  you  really?  Do  you?"  said  Whiskey  Dick,  with 
suddenly  twinkling  eyes.  "That's  like  you  to  say  it. 
That's  what  I  allus  said,"  continued  Dick,  addressing 
space  generally;  "if  there's  any  one  ez  knows  how  to 
come  square  down  to  the  bottom  rock  without  flinchin', 
it's  your  high-toned,  fash'nable  gals.  But  I  must  mean 
der  back  to  town,  and  let  the  boys  know  you're  in  pos 
session,  safe  and  sound.  It's  right  mean  that  Fairfax 
and  Mattingly  had  to  go  down  to  Lagrange  on  some 
low  business  yesterday,  but  they'll  be  back  to-morrow. 
So  long." 

Left  alone,  the  girls  began  to  realize  their  strange  posi 
tion.  They  had  conceived  no  settled  plan.  The  night 
they  left  San  Francisco  they  had  written  an  earnest 
letter  to  their  father,  telling  him  that  on  learning  the 
truth  about  the  reverses  of  Devil's  Ford,  they  thought 
it  their  duty  to  return  and  share  them  with  others,  with 
out  obliging  him  to  prefer  the  request,  and  with  as 
little  worry  to  him  as  possible.  He  would  find  them 
ready  to  share  his  trials,  and  in  what  must  be  the  scene 
of  their  work  hereafter. 

"It  will  bring  father  back,"  said  Christie ;  "he 
won't  leave  us  here  alone ;  and  then  together  we  must 
come  to  some  understanding  with  him — with  them — 
for  somehow  I  feel  as  if  this  house  belonged  to  us 
no  longer." 

Her  surmise  was  not  far  wrong.  When  Mr.  Carr 
arrived  hurriedly  from  Sacramento  the  next  evening,  he 
found  the  house  deserted.  His  daughters  were  gone; 
there  were  indications  that  they  had  arrived,  and,  for 
some  reason,  suddenly  departed.  The  vague  fear  that 
had  haunted  his  guilty  soul  after  receiving  their  letter, 
and  during  his  breathless  journey,  now  seemed  to  be 
realized.  He  was  turning  from  the  empty  house,  whose 
reproachful  solitude  frightened  him,  when  he  was  con 
fronted  on  the  threshold  by  the  figure  of  Fairfax  Munroe. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  149 

"I  came  to  the  stage  office  to  meet  you,"  he  said;  "you 
must  have  left  the  stage  at  the  summit." 

"I  did,"  said  Carr  angrily.  "I  was  anxious  to  meet 
my  daughters  quickly,  to  know  the  reason  of  their  foolish 
alarm,  and  to  know  also  who  had  been  frightening  them. 
Where  are  they?" 

"They  are  safe  in  the  old  cabin  beyond,  that  has  been 
put  up  ready  to  receive  them  again,"  said  Fairfax  quietly. 

"But  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?  Why  are  they 
not  here?"  demanded  Carr,  hiding  his  agitation  in  a 
burst  of  querulous  rage. 

"Do  you  ask,  Mr.  Carr?"  said  Fairfax  sadly.  "Did 
you  expect  them  to  remain  here  until  the  sheriff  took 
possession?  No  one  knows  better  than  yourself  that 
the  money  advanced  you  on  the  deeds  of  this  homestead 
has  never  been  repaid." 

Carr  staggered,  but  recovered  himself  with  feeble 
violence. 

"Since  you  know  so  much  of  my  affairs,  how  do  you 
know  that  this  claim  will  ever  be  pressed  for  payment? 
How  do  you  know  it  is  not  the  advance  of  a — a — 
friend?" 

"Because  I  have  seen  the  woman  who  advanced  it," 
said  Fairfax  hopelessly.  "She  was  here  to  look  at  the 
property  before  your  daughters  came." 

"Well?"  said  Carr  nervously. 

"Well !  You  force  me  to  tell  you  something  I  should 
like  to  forget.  You  force  me  to  anticipate  a  disclosure 
I  expected  to  make  to  you  only  when  I  came  to  ask 
permission  to  woo  your  daughter  Jessie;  and  when  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  you  will  understand  that  I  have  no 
right  to  criticise  your  conduct.  I  am  only  explaining 
my  own." 

"Go  on,"  said  Carr  impatiently. 

"When  I  first  came  to  this  country,  there  was  a  woman 
I  loved  passionately.  She  treated  me  as  women  of  her 
kind  only  treat  men  like  me ;  she  ruined  me,  and  left 
me.  That  was  four  years  ago.  I  love  your  daughter, 
Mr.  Carr,  but  she  has  never  heard  it  from  my  lips.  I 
would  not  woo  her  until  I  had  told  you  all.  I  have  tried 


160  DEVIL'S   FORD 

to  do  it  ere  this,  and  failed.  Perhaps  I  should  not  now, 
but—" 

"But  what?"  said  Carr  furiously;  "speak  out!" 

"But  this.  Look!"  said  Fairfax,  producing  from  his 
pocket  the  packet  of  letters  Jessie  had  found;  "perhaps 
you  know  the  handwriting?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  gasped  Carr. 

"That  woman — my  mistress — is  the  woman  who  ad 
vanced  you  money,  and  who  claims  this  house." 

The  interview,  and  whatever  came  of  it,  remained  a 
secret  with  the  two  men.  When  Mr.  Carr  accepted  the 
hospitality  of  the  old  cabin  again,  it  was  understood  that 
he  had  sacrificed  the  new  house  and  its  furniture  to 
some  of  the  more  pressing  debts  of  the  mine,  and  the 
act  went  far  to  restore  his  waning  popularity.  But  a 
more  genuine  feeling  of  relief  was  experienced  by  Devil's 
Ford  when  it  was  rumored  that  Fairfax  Munroe  had 
asked  for  the  hand  of  Jessie  Carr,  and  that  some  promise 
contingent  upon  the  equitable  adjustment  of  the  affairs 
of  the  mine  had  been  given  by  Mr.  Carr.  To  the  super 
stitious  mind  of  Devil's  Ford  and  its  few  remaining 
locators,  this  new  partnership  seemed  to  promise  that 
unity  of  interest  and  stability  of  fortune  that  Devil's  Ford 
had  lacked.  But  nothing  could  be  done  until  the  rainy 
season  had  fairly  set  in;  until  the  long-looked-for  element 
that  was  to  magically  separate  the  gold  from  the  dross 
in  those  dull  mounds  of  dust  and  gravel  had  come  of  its 
own  free  will,  and  in  its  own  appointed  channels,  inde 
pendent  of  the  feeble  auxiliaries  that  had  hopelessly 
riven  the  rocks  on  the  hillside,  or  hung  incomplete  and 
unfinished  in  lofty  scaffoldings  above  the  settlement. 

The  rainy  season  came  early.  At  first  in  gathered 
mists  on  the  higher  peaks  that  were  lifted  in  the  morn 
ing  sun  only  to  show  a  fresher  field  of  dazzling  white 
below;  in  white  clouds  that  at  first  seemed  to  be  mere 
drifts  blown  across  from  those  fresh  snowfields,  and 
obscuring  the  clear  blue  above;  in  far-off  murmurs  in 
the  hollow  hills  and  gulches ;  in  nearer  tinkling  melody 
and  baby  prattling  in  the  leaves.  It  came  with  bright 


DEVIL'S    FORD  151 

flashes  of  sunlight  by  day,  with  deep,  monotonous  shadow 
at  night;  with  the  onset  of  heavy  winds,  the  roar  of 
turbulent  woods,  the  tumultuous  tossing  of  leafy  arms, 
and  with  what  seemed  the  silent  dissolution  of  the  whole 
landscape  in  days  of  steady  and  uninterrupted  downfall. 
It  came  extravagantly,  for  every  canon  had  grown  into 
a  torrent,  every  gulch  a  waterspout,  every  watercourse 
a  river,  and  all  pouring  into  the  North  Fork,  that,  rush 
ing  past  the  settlement,  seemed  to  threaten  it  with  lifted 
crest  and  flying  mane.  It  came  dangerously,  for  one 
night  the  river,  leaping  the  feeble  barrier  of  Devil's 
Ford,  swept  away  houses  and  banks,  scattered  with  un 
conscious  irony  the  laboriously  collected  heaps  of  gravel 
left  for  hydraulic  machinery,  and  spread  out  a  vast  and 
silent  lake  across  the  submerged  flat. 

In  the  hurry  and  confusion  of  that  night  the  girls  had 
thrown  open  their  cabin  to  the  escaping  miners,  who 
hurried  along  the  slope  that  was  now  the  bank  of  the 
river.  Suddenly  Christie  felt  her  arm  grasped,  and  she 
was  half-led,  half-dragged,  into  the  inner  room.  Her 
father  stood  before  her. 

"Where  is  George  Kearney?"  he  asked  tremulously. 

"George  Kearney!"  echoed  Christie,  for  a  moment 
believing  the  excitement  had  turned  her  father's  brain. 
"You  know  he  is  not  here;  he  is  in  San  Francisco." 

"He  is  here — I  tell  you,"  said  Carr  impatiently;  "he 
has  been  here  ever  since  the  high  water,  trying  to  save 
the  flume  and  reservoir." 

"George — here !"  Christie  could  only  gasp. 

"Yes !  He  passed  here  a  few  moments  ago,  to  see  if 
you  were  all  safe,  and  he  has  gone  on  towards  the  flume. 
But  what  he  is  trying  to  do  is  madness.  If  you  see  him, 
implore  him  to  do  no  more.  Let  him  abandon  the  ac 
cursed  flume  to  its  fate.  It  has  worked  already  too  much 
woe  upon  us  all ;  why  should  it  carry  his  brave  and 
youthful  soul  down  with  it?" 

The  words  were  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  when  he 
suddenly  passed  away,  with  the  hurrying  crowd.  Scarcely 
knowing  what  she  did,  she  ran  out,  vaguely  intent  only 
on  one  thought,  seeking  only  the  one  face,  lately  so 


152  DEVIL'S    FORD 

dear  in  recollection  that  she  felt  she  would  die  if  she 
never  saw  it  again.  Perplexed  by  confused  voices  in  the 
woods,  she  lost  track  of  the  crowd,  until  the  voices  sud 
denly  were  raised  in  one  loud  outcry,  followed  by  the 
crashing  of  timber,  the  splashing  of  water,  a  silence,  and 
then  a  dull,  continuous  roar.  She  ran  vaguely  on  in  the 
direction  of  the  reservoir,  with  her  father's  injunction 
still  in  her  mind,  until  a  terrible  idea  displaced  it,  and 
she  turned  at  right  angles  suddenly,  and  ran  towards 
the  slope  leading  down  to  the  submerged  flat.  She  had 
barely  left  the  shelter  of  the  trees  behind  her  before  the 
roar  of  water  seemed  to  rise  at  her  very  feet.  She 
stopped,  dazed,  bewildered,  and  horror-stricken,  on  the 
edge  of  the  slope.  It  was  the  slope  no  longer,  but  the 
bank  of  the  river  itself ! 

Even  in  the  gray  light  of  early  morning,  and  with  in 
experienced  eyes,  she  saw  all  too  clearly  now.  The 
trestle-work  had  given  way ;  the  curving  mile  of  flume, 
fallen  into  the  stream,  and,  crushed  and  dammed  against 
the  opposite  shore,  had  absolutely  turned  the  whole 
river  through  the  half-finished  ditch  and  partly  excavated 
mine  in  its  way,  a  few  rods  further  on  to  join  the  old 
familiar  channel.  The  bank  of  the  river  was  changed ; 
the  flat  had  become  an  island,  between  which  and  the 
slope  where  she  stood  the  North  Fork  was  rolling  its 
resistless  yellow  torrent.  As  she  gazed  spellbound,  a 
portion  of  the  slope  beneath  her  suddenly  seemed  to 
sink  and  crumble,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  the  rushing 
stream.  She  heard  a  cry  of  warning  behind  her,  but, 
rooted  to  the  spot  by  a  fearful  fascination,  she  heeded 
it  not. 

Again  there  was  a  sudden  disruption,  and  another  part 
of  the  slope  sank  to  rise  no  more ;  but  this  time  she  felt 
herself  seized  by  the  waist  and  dragged  back.  It  was 
her  father  standing  by  her  side. 

He  was  flushed  and  excited,  gazing  at  the  water  with 
a  strange  exultation. 

"Do  you  see  it?  Do  you  know  what  has  happened?" 
he  asked  quickly. 

"The    flume    has    fallen   and    turned    the    river,"    said 


DEVIL'S    FORD  153 

Christie  hurriedly.  "But — have  you  seen  him — is  he 
safe?" 

"He — who?"  he  answered  vacantly. 

"George  Kearney !" 

"He  is  safe,"  he  said  impatiently.  "But,  do  you  see, 
Christie?  Do  you  know  what  this  means?" 

He  pointed  with  his  tremulous  hand  to  the  stream 
before  them. 

"It  means  we  are  ruined,"  said  Christie  coldly. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind !  It  means  that  the  river  is 
doing  the  work  of  the  flume.  It  is  sluicing  off  the  gravel, 
deepening  the  ditch,  and  altering  the  slope  which  was 
the  old  bend  of  the  river.  It  will  do  in  ten  minutes 
the  work  that  would  take  us  a  year.  If  we  can  stop  it 
in  time,  or  control  it,  we  are  safe ;  but  if  we  can  not,  it 
will  carry  away  the  bed  and  deposit  with  the  rest,  and 
we  are  ruined  again." 

With  a  gesture  of  impotent  fury,  he  dashed  away  in 
the  direction  of  an  equally  excited  crowd,  that  on  a 
point  of  the  slope  nearer  the  island  were  gesticulating 
and  shouting  to  a  second  group  of  men,  who  on  the 
opposite  shore  were  clambering  on  over  the  choked 
debris  of  the  flume  that  had  dammed  and  diverted  the 
current.  It  was  evident  that  the  same  idea  had  occurred 
to  them,  and  they  were  risking  their  lives  in  the  attempt 
to  set  free  the  impediments.  Shocked  and  indignant  as 
Christie  had  been  at  the  degrading  absorption  of  mate 
rial  interests  at  such  a  moment,  the  element  of  danger 
lifted  the  labors  of  these  men  into  heroism,  and  she 
began  to  feel  a  strange  exultation  as  she  watched  them. 
Under  the  skilful  blows  of  their  axes,  in  a  few  moments 
the  vast  body  of  drift  began  to  disintegrate,  and  then  to 
swing  round  and  move  towards  the  old  channel.  A  cheer 
went  up,  but  as  suddenly  died  away  again.  An  over 
lapping  fringe  of  wreckage  had  caught  on  the  point  of 
the  island  and  arrested  the  whole  mass. 

The  men,  who  had  gained  the  shore  with  difficulty, 
looked  back  with  a  cry  of  despair.  But  the  next  moment 
from  among  them  leaped  a  figure,  alert,  buoyant,  invinci 
ble,  and,  axe  in  hand,  once  more  essayed  the  passage. 


164  DEVIL'S    FORD 

Springing  from  timber  to  timber,  he  at  last  reached  the 
point  of  obstruction.  A  few  strokes  of  the  axe  were 
sufficient  to  clear  it;  but  at  the  first  stroke  it  was  appar 
ent  that  the  striker  was  also  losing  his  hold  upon  the 
shore,  and  that  he  must  inevitably  be  carried  away  with 
the  tossing  debris.  But  this  consideration  did  not  seem 
to  affect  him;  the  last  blow  was  struck,  and  as  the  freed 
timbers  rolled  on,  over  and  over,  he  boldly  plunged  into 
the  flood.  Christie  gave  a  little  cry — her  heart  had 
bounded  with  him ;  it  seemed  as  if  his  plunge  had  splashed 
the  water  in  her  eyes.  He  did  not  come  to  the  surface 
until  he  had  passed  the  point  below  where  her  father 
stood,  and  then  struggling  feebly,  as  if  stunned  or  dis 
abled  by  a  blow.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  trying 
to  approach  the  side  of  the  river  where  she  was.  Would 
he  do  it?  Could  she  help  him?  She  was  alone;  he  was 
hidden  from  the  view  of  the  men  on  the  point,  and  no 
succor  could  come  from  them.  There  was  a  fringe  of 
alder  nearly  opposite  their  cabin  that  almost  overhung 
the  stream.  She  ran  to  it,  clutched  it  with  a  frantic  hand, 
and,  leaning  over  the  boiling  water,  uttered  for  the  first 
time  his  name: 

"George !" 

As  if  called  to  the  surface  by  the  magic  of  her  voice, 
he  rose  a  few  yards  from  her  in  mid-current,  and  turned 
his  fading  eyes  towards  the  bank.  In  another  moment 
he  would  have  been  swept  beyond  her  reach,  but  with 
a  supreme  effort  he  turned  on  one  side;  the  current, 
striking  him  sideways,  threw  him  towards  the  bank,  and 
she  caught  him  by  his  sleeve.  For  an  instant  it  seemed 
as  if  she  would  be  dragged  down  with  him.  For  one 
dangerous  moment  she  did  not  care,  and  almost  yielded 
to  the  spell ;  but  as  the  rush  of  water  pressed  him  against 
the  bank,  she  recovered  herself,  and  managed  to  lift  him 
beyond  its  reach.  And  then  she  sat  down,  half-fainting, 
with  his  white  face  and  damp  curls  upon  her  breast. 

"George,  darling,  speak  to  me !  Only  one  word !  Tell 
me,  have  I  saved  you?" 

His  eyes  opened.  A  faint  twinkle  of  the  old  days 
came  to  them — a  boyish  smile  played  upon  his  lips. 


DEVIL'S    FORD  155 

"For  yourself — or  Jessie?" 

She  looked  around  her  with  a  little  frightened  air. 
They  were  alone.  There  was  but  one  way  of  sealing 
those  mischievous  lips,  and  she  found  it ! 

"That's  what  I  allus  said,  gentlemen,"  lazily  remarked 
Whiskey  Dick,  a  few  weeks  later,  leaning  back  against 
the  bar,  with  his  glass  in  his  hand.  "  'George,'  sez  I, 
'it  ain't  what  you  say  to  a  fash'nable,  high-toned  young 
lady;  it's  what  you  does  ez  makes  or  breaks  you.'  And 
that's  what  I  sez  gin'rally  o'  things  in  the  Ford.  It 
ain't  what  Carr  and  you  boys  allows  to  do ;  it's  the  gin'- 
ral  average  o'  things  ez  is  done  that  gives  tone  to  the 
hull,  and  hez  brought  this  yer  new  luck  to  you  all!" 


A   WAIF   OF   THE   PLAINS 


A  WAIF   OF   THE   PLAINS 


CHAPTER   I 

A  LONG  level  of  dull  gray  that  further  away  became 
a  faint  blue,  with  here  and  there  darker  patches  that 
looked  like  water.  At  times  an  open  space,  blackened 
and  burnt  in  an  irregular  circle,  with  a  shred  of  news 
paper,  an  old  rag,  or  broken  tin  can  lying  in  the  ashes. 
Beyond  these  always  a  low  dark  line  that  seemed  to  sink 
into  the  ground  at  night,  and  rose  again  in  the  morning 
with  the  first  light,  but  never  otherwise  changed  its 
height  and  distance.  A  sense  of  always  moving  with 
some  indefinite  purpose,  but  of  always  returning  at  night 
to  the  same  place — with  the  same  surroundings,  the  same 
people,  the  same  bedclothes,  and  the  same  awful  black 
canopy  dropped  down  from  above.  A  chalky  taste  of 
dust  on  the  mouth  and  lips,  a  gritty  sense  of  earth  on 
the  fingers,  and  an  all-pervading  heat  and  smell  of  cattle. 

This  was  "The  Great  Plains"  as  they  seemed  to  two 
children  from  the  hooded  depth  of  an  emigrant  wagon, 
above  the  swaying  heads  of  toiling  oxen,  in  the  summer 
of  1852. 

It  had  appeared  so  to  them  for  two  weeks,  always  the 
same  and  always  without  the  least  sense  to  them  of 
wonder  or  monotony.  When  they  viewed  it  from  the 
road,  walking  beside  the  wagon,  there  was  only  the  team 
itself  added  to  the  unvarying  picture.  One  of  the  wagons 
bore  on  its  canvas  hood  the  inscription,  in  large  black 
letters,  "Off  to  California!"  on  the  other  "Root,  Hog, 
or  Die,"  but  neither  of  them  awoke  in  the  minds  of  the 
children  the  faintest  idea  of  playfulness  or  jocularity. 
Perhaps  it  was  difficult  to  connect  the  serious  men,  who 

159 


160  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

occasionally  walked  beside  them  and  seemed  to  grow 
more  taciturn  and  depressed  as  the  day  wore  on,  with 
this  past  effusive  pleasantry. 

Yet  the  impressions  of  the  two  children  differed, 
slightly.  The  eldest,  a  boy  of  eleven,  was  apparently 
new  to  the  domestic  habits  and  customs  of  a  life  to  which 
the  younger,  a  girl  of  seven,  was  evidently  native  and 
familiar.  The  food  was  coarse  and  less  skillfully  pre 
pared  than  that  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  There 
was  a  certain  freedom  and  roughness  in  their  inter 
course,  a  simplicity  that  bordered  almost  on  rudeness 
in  their  domestic  arrangements,  and  a  speech  that  was 
at  times  almost  untranslatable  to  him.  He  slept  in  his 
clothes,  wrapped  up  in  blankets;  he  was  conscious  that 
in  the  matter  of  cleanliness  he  was  left  to  himself  to 
overcome  the  difficulties  of  finding  water  and  towels. 
But  it  is  doubtful  if  in  his  youthfulness  it  affected  him 
more  than  a  novelty.  He  ate  and  slept  well,  and  found 
his  life  amusing.  Only  at  times  the  rudeness  of  his 
companions,  or,  worse,  an  indifference  that  made  him 
feel  his  dependency  upon  them,  awoke  a  vague  sense 
of  some  wrong  that  had  been  done  to  him  which 
while  it  was  voiceless  to  all  others  and  even  uneasily 
put  aside  by  himself,  was  still  always  slumbering  in  his 
childish  consciousness. 

To  the  party  he  was  known  as  an  orphan  put  on  the 
train  at  "St.  Jo"  by  some  relative  of  his  stepmother, 
to  be  delivered  to  another  relative  at  Sacramento.  As 
his  stepmother  had  not  even  taken  leave  of  him,  but 
had  entrusted  his  departure  to  the  relative  with  whom 
he  had  been  lately  living,  it  was  considered  as  an  act  of 
"riddance,"  and  accepted  as  such  by  her  party,  and  even 
vaguely  acquiesced  in  by  the  boy  himself.  What  con 
sideration  had  been  offered  for  his  passage  he  did  not 
know ;  he  only  remembered  that  he  had  been  told  "to 
make  himself  handy."  This  he  had  done  cheerfully. 
if  at  times  with  the  unskillfulness  of  a  novice ;  but  it 
was  not  a  peculiar  or  a  menial  task  in  a  company  where 
all  took  part  in  manual  labor,  and  where  existence 
seemed  to  him  to  bear  the  charm  of  a  prolonged  picnic. 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  161 

Neither  was  he  subjected  to  any  difference  of  affection 
or  treatment  from  Mrs.  Silsbee,  the  mother  of  his  little 
companion,  and  the  wife  of  the  leader  of  the  train. 
Prematurely  old,  of  ill-health,  and  harassed  with  cares, 
she  had  no  time  to  waste  in  discriminating  maternal 
tenderness  for  her  daughter,  but  treated  the  children 
with  equal  and  unbiased  querulousness. 

The  rear  wagon  creaked,  swayed,  and  rolled  on  slowly 
and  heavily.  The  hoofs  of  the  draft-oxen,  occasionally 
striking  in  the  dust  with  a  dull  report,  sent  little  puffs 
like  smoke  on  either  side  of  the  track.  Within,  the 
children  were  playing  "keeping  store."  The  little  girl, 
as  an  opulent  and  extravagant  customer,  was  purchasing 
of  the  boy,  who  sat  behind  a  counter  improvised  from  a 
nail-keg  and  the  front  seat,  most  of  the  available  con 
tents  of  the  wagon,  either  under  their  own  names  or 
an  imaginary  one  as  the  moment  suggested,  and  paying 
for  them  in  the  easy  and  liberal  currency  of  dried  beans 
and  bits  of  paper.  Change  was  given  by  the  expeditious 
method  of  tearing  the  paper  into  smaller  fragments.  The 
diminution  of  stock  was  remedied  by  buying  the  same 
article  over  again  under  a  different  name.  Neverthe 
less,  in  spite  of  these  favorable  commercial  conditions, 
the  market  seemed  dull. 

"I  can  show  you  a  fine  quality  of  sheeting  at  four 
cents  a  yard,  double  width,"  said  the  boy,  rising  and 
leaning  on  his  fingers  on  the  counter  as  he  had  seen 
the  shopmen  do.  "All  wool  and  will  wash,"  he  added, 
with  easy  gravity. 

"I  can  buy  it  cheaper  at  Jackson's,"  said  the  girl,  with 
the  intuitive  duplicity  of  her  bargaining  sex. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  boy.     "I  won't  play  any  more." 

"Who  cares?"  said  the  girl  indifferently.  The  boy 
here  promptly  upset  the  counter ;  the  rolled-up  blanket 
which  had  deceitfully  represented  the  desirable  sheeting 
falling  on  the  wagon  floor.  It  apparently  suggested 
a  new  idea  to  the  former  salesman.  "I  say !  let's  play 
'damaged  stock.'  See,  I'll  tumble  all  the  things  down 
here  right  on  top  o'  the  others,  and  sell  'em  for  less 
than  cost" 


162  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

The  girl  looked  up.  The  suggestion  was  bold,  bad, 
and  momentarily  attractive.  But  she  only  said  "No," 
apparently  from  habit,  picked  up  her  doll,  and  the  boy 
clambered  to  the  front  of  the  wagon.  The  incomplete 
episode  terminated  at  once  with  that  perfect  forgetful- 
ness,  indifference,  and  irresponsibility  common  to  all 
young  animals.  If  either  could  have  flown  away  or 
bounded  off  finally  at  that  moment,  they  would  have 
done  so  with  no  more  concern  for  preliminary  detail 
than  a  bird  or  squirrel.  The  wagon  rolled  steadily  on. 
The  boy  could  see  that  one  of  the  teamsters  had  climbed 
up  on  the  tail-board  of  the  preceding  vehicle.  The 
other  seemed  to  be  walking  in  a  dusty  sleep. 

"Kla'uns,"  said  the  girl. 

The  boy,  without  turning  his  head,  responded,  "Susy." 

"Wot  are  you  going  to  be?"  said  the  girl. 

"Coin'  to  be?"  repeated  Clarence. 

"When  you  is  growed,"  explained  Susy. 

Clarence  hesitated.  His  settled  determination  'had 
been  to  become  a  pirate,  merciless  yet  discriminating. 
But  reading  in  a  bethumbed  "Guide  to  the  Plains"  that 
morning  of  Fort  Lamarie  and  Kit  Carson,  he  had 
decided  upon  the  career  of  a  "scout,"  as  being  more 
accessible  and  requiring  less  water.  Yet,  out  of  com 
passion  for  Susy's  possible  ignorance,  he  said  neither, 
and  responded  with  the  American  boy's  modest  con 
ventionality,  "President."  It  was  safe,  required  no 
embarrassing  description,  and  had  been  approved  by 
benevolent  old  gentlemen  with  their  hands  on  his  head. 

"I'm  goin'  to  be  a  parson's  wife,"  said  Susy,  "and 
keep  hens,  and  have  things  giv'  to  me.  Baby  clothes, 
and  apples,  and  apple  sass — and  melasses !  and  more 
baby  clothes !  and  pork  when  you  kill." 

She  had  thrown  herself  at  the  bottom  of  the  wagon, 
with  her  back  towards  him  and  her  doll  in  her  lap.  He 
could  see  the  curve  of  her  curly  head,  and  beyond,  her 
bare  dimpled  knees,  which  were  raised,  and  over  which 
she  was  trying  to  fold  the  hem  of  her  brief  skirt. 

"I  wouldn't  be  a  President's  wife,"  she  said  pres 
ently. 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  163 

"You  couldn't!" 

"Could  if  I   wanted  to!" 

"Couldn't !" 

"Could  now!" 

"Couldn't !" 

"Why?" 

Finding  it  difficult  to  explain  his  convictions  of  her 
ineligibility,  Clarence  thought  it  equally  crushing  not  to 
give  any.  There  was  a  long  silence.  It  was  very  hot 
and  dusty.  The  wagon  scarcely  seemed  to  move.  Clar 
ence  gazed  at  the  vignette  of  the  track  behind  them 
formed  by  the  hood  of  the  rear.  Presently  he  rose  and 
walked  past  her  to  the  tail-board.  "Coin'  to  get  down," 
he  said,  putting  his  legs  over. 

"Maw  says  'No/  "  said  Susy. 

Clarence  did  not  reply,  but  dropped  to  the  ground 
beside  the  slowly  turning  wheels.  Without  quickening 
his  pace  he  could  easily  keep  his  hand  on  the  tail-board. 

"Kla'uns." 

He  looked  up. 

"Take  me." 

She  had  already  clapped  on  her  sun-bonnet  and  was 
standing  at  the  edge  of  the  tail-board,  her  little  arms 
extended  in  such  perfect  confidence  of  being  caught 
that  the  boy  could  not  resist.  He  caught  her  cleverly. 
They  halted  a  moment  and  let  the  lumbering  vehicle 
move  away  from  them,  as  it  swayed  from  side  to  side 
as  if  laboring  in  a  heavy  sea.  They  remained  motion 
less  until  it  had  reached  nearly  a  hundred  yards,  and 
then,  with  a  sudden  half-real,  half-assumed,  but  alto 
gether  delightful  trepidation,  ran  forward  and  caught 
up  with  it  again.  This  they  repeated  two  or  three  times 
until  both  themselves  and  the  excitement  were  ex 
hausted,  and  they  again  plodded  on  hand  in  hand. 
Presently  Clarence  uttered  a  cry. 

"My!  Susy— look  there!" 

The  rear  wagon  had  once  more  slipped  away  from 
them  a  considerable  distance.  Between  it  and  them, 
crossing  its  track,  a  most  extraordinary  creature  had 
halted. 


164  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

At  first  glance  it  seemed  a  dog — a  discomfited,  shame 
less,  ownerless  outcast  of  streets  and  byways,  rather 
than  an  honest  stray  of  some  drover's  train.  It  was  so 
gaunt,  so  dusty,  so  greasy,  so  slouching,  and  so  lazy ! 
But  as  they  looked  at  it  more  intently  they  saw  that 
the  grayish  hair  of  its  back  had  a  bristly  ridge,  and  there 
were  great  poisonous-looking  dark  blotches  on  its  flanks, 
and  that  the  slouch  of  its  haunches  was  a  peculiarity  of 
its  figure,  and  not  the  cowering  of  fear.  As  it  lifted  its 
suspicious  head  towards  them  they  could  see  that  its 
thin  lips,  too  short  to  cover  its  white  teeth,  were  curled 
in  a  perpetual  sneer. 

"Here,  doggie !"  said  Clarence  excitedly.  "Good  dog ! 
Come." 

Susy  burst  into  a  triumphant  laugh.  "Et  tain't  no  dog, 
silly;  it's  er  coyote." 

Clarence  blushed.  It  wasn't  the  first  time  the  pioneer's 
daughter  had  shown  her  superior  knowledge.  He  said 
quickly,  to  hide  his  discomfiture,  "I'll  ketch  him,  any 
way;  he's  nothin'  mor'n  a  ki  yi." 

"Ye  can't,  tho,"  said  Susy,  shaking  her  sun-bonnet. 
"He's  faster  nor  a  hoss !" 

Nevertheless,  Clarence  ran  towards  him,  followed  by 
Susy.  When  they  had  come  within  twenty  feet  of  him, 
the  lazy  creature,  without  apparently  the  least  effort, 
took  two  or  three  limping  bounds  to  one  side,  and  re 
mained  at  the  same  distance  as  before.  They  repeated 
this  onset  three  or  four  times  with  more  or  less  excite 
ment  and  hilarity,  the  animal  evading  them  to  one  side, 
but  never  actually  retreating  before  them.  Finally,  it 
occurred  to  them  both  that  although  they  were  not 
catching  him  they  were  not  driving  him  away.  The 
consequences  of  that  thought  were  put  into  shape  by 
Susy  with  round-eyed  significance. 

"Kla'uns,  he  bites." 

Clarence  picked  up  a  hard  sun-baked  clod,  and,  run 
ning  forward,  threw  it  at  the  coyote.  It  was  a  clever 
shot,  and  struck  him  on  his  slouching  haunches.  He 
snapped  and  gave  a  short  snarling  yelp,  and  vanished. 
Clarence  returned  with  a  victorious  air  to  his  com- 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  165 

panion.  But  she  was  gazing  intently  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  for  the  first  time  he  discovered  that  the 
coyote  had  been  leading  them  half  round  a  circle. 

"Kla'uns,"  said  Susy,  with  a  hysterical  little  laugh. 

"Well?" 

"The  wagon's  gone." 

Clarence  started.  It  was  true.  Not  only  their  wagon, 
but  the  whole  train  of  oxen  and  teamsters  had  utterly 
disappeared,  vanishing  as  completely  as  if  they  had  been 
caught  up  in  a  whirlwind  or  engulfed  in  the  earth ! 
Even  the  low  cloud  of  dust  that  usually  marked  their 
distant  course  by  day  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  long 
level  plain  stretched  before  them  to  the  setting  sun,  with 
out  a  sign  or  trace  of  moving  life  or  animation.  That 
great  blue  crystal  bowl,  filled  with  dust  and  fire  by  day, 
with  stars  and  darkness  by  night,  which  had  always 
seemed  to  drop  its  rim  round  them  everywhere  and  shut 
them  in,  seemed  to  them  now  to  have  been  lifted  to  let 
the  train  pass  out,  and  then  closed  down  upon  them 
forever. 

CHAPTER    II 

THEIR  first  sensation  was  one  of  purely  animal  free 
dom. 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
long  silent  breaths.  But  this  spontaneous  outburst  of 
savage  nature  soon  passed.  Susy's  little  hand  presently 
reached  forward  and  clutched  Clarence's  jacket.  The 
boy  understood  it,  and  said  quickly, — 

"They  ain't  gone  far,  and  they'll  stop  as  soon  as  they 
find  us  gone." 

They  trotted  on  a  little  faster;  the  sun  they  had  fol 
lowed  every  day  and  the  fresh  wagon  tracks  being  their 
unfailing  guides ;  the  keen,  cool  air  of  the  plains,  taking 
the  place  of  that  all-pervading  dust  and  smell  of  the  per 
spiring  oxen,  invigorating  them  with  its  breath. 

"We  ain't  skeered  a  bit,  are  we?"  said  Susy. 

"What's  there  to  be  afraid  of?"  said  Clarence  scorn 
fully.  He  said  this  none  the  less  strongly  because  he 


166  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

suddenly  remembered  that  they  had  been  often  left  alone 
in  the  wagon  for  hours  without  being  looked  after,  and 
that  their  absence  might  not  be  noticed  until  the  train 
stopped  to  encamp  at  dusk,  two  hours  later.  They  were 
not  running  very  fast,  yet  either  they  were  more  tired 
than  they  knew,  or  the  air  was  thinner,  for  they  both 
seemed  to  breathe  quickly.  Suddenly  Clarence  stopped. 

"There  they  are  now." 

He  was  pointing  to  a  light  cloud  of  dust  in  the  far-off 
horizon,  from  which  the  black  hulk  of  a  wagon  emerged 
for  a  moment  and  was  lost.  But  even  as  they  gazed  the 
cloud  seemed  to  sink  like  a  fairy  mirage  to  the  earth 
again,  the  whole  train  disappeared,  and  only  the  empty 
stretching  track  returned.  They  did  not  know  that  this 
seemingly  flat  and  level  plain  was  really  undulatory, 
and  that  the  vanished  train  had  simply  dipped  below 
their  yiew  on  some  further  slope  even  as  it  had  once 
before.  But  they  knew  they  were  disappointed,  and  that 
disappointment  revealed  to  them  the  fact  that  they  had 
concealed  it  from  each  other.  The  girl  was  the  first  to 
succumb,  and  burst  into  a  quick  spasm  of  angry  tears. 
That  single  act  of  weakness  called  out  the  boy's  pride 
and  strength.  There  was  no  longer  an  equality  of  suffer 
ing  ;  he  had  become  her  protector ;  he  felt  himself  re 
sponsible  for  both.  Considering  her  no  longer  his  equal, 
he  was  no  longer  frank  with  her. 

"There's  nothin'  to  boo-hoo  for,"  he  said,  with  a  half- 
affected  brusqueness.  "So  quit,  now !  They'll  stop  in  a 
minit,  and  send  some  one  back  for  us.  Shouldn't  wonder 
if  they're  doin'  it  now." 

But  Susy,  with  feminine  discrimination  detecting  the 
hollow  ring  in  his  voice,  here  threw  herself  upon  him 
and  began  to  beat  him  violently  with  her  little  fists. 
"They  ain't!  They  ain't!  They  ain't.  You  know  it! 
How  dare  you?"  Then,  exhausted  with  her  struggles, 
she  suddenly  threw  herself  flat  on  the  dry  grass,  shut  her 
eyes  tightly,  and  clutched  at  the  stubble. 

"Get  up,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  pale,  determined  face 
that  seemed  to  have  got  much  older. 

"You  leave  me  be,"  said  Susy. 


A  WAIF  OF   THE   PLAINS  167 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  away  and  leave  you?"  asked 
the  boy. 

Susy  opened  one  blue  eye  furtively  in  the  secure 
depths  of  her  sun-bonnet,  and  gazed  at  his  changed  face. 

"Ye-e-s." 

He  pretended  to  turn  away,  but  really  to  look  at  the 
height  of  the  sinking  sun. 

"Kla'uns !" 

"Well?" 

"Take  me." 

She  was  holding  up  her  hands.  He  lifted  her  gently 
in  his  arms,  dropping  her  head  over  his  shoulder. 
"Now,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "you  keep  a  good  lookout 
that  way,  and  I  this,  and  we'll  soon  be  there." 

The  idea  seemed  to  please  her.  After  Clarence  had 
stumbled  on  for  a  few  moments,  she  said,  "Do  you  see 
anything,  Kla'uns?" 

"Not  yet." 

"No  more  don't  I."  This  equality  of  perception  ap 
parently  satisfied  her.  Presently  she  lay  more  limp  in 
his  arms.  She  was  asleep. 

The  sun  was  sinking  lower;  it  had  already  touched 
the  edge  of  the  horizon,  and  was  level  with  his  dazzled 
and  straining  eyes.  At  times  it  seemed  to  impede  his 
eager  search  and  task  his  vision.  Haze  and  black  spots 
floated  across  the  horizon,  and  round  wafers,  like  dupli 
cates  of  the  sun,  glittered  back  from  the  dull  surface  of 
the  plains.  Then  he  resolved  to  look  no  more  until  he 
had  counted  fifty,  a  hundred,  but  always  with  the  same 
result,  the  return  of  the  empty,  unending  plains — the 
disk  growing  redder  as  it  neared  the  horizon,  the  fire 
it  seemed  to  kindle  as  it  sank,  but  nothing  more. 

Staggering  under  his  burden,  he  tried  to  distract  him 
self  by  fancying  how  the  discovery  of  their  absence 
would  be  made.  He  heard  the  listless,  half-querulous 
discussion  about  the  locality  that  regularly  pervaded  the 
nightly  camp.  He  heard  the  discontented  voice  of  Jake 
Silsbee  as  he  halted  beside  the  wagon,  and  said,  "Come 
out  o'  that  now,  you  two,  and  mighty  quick  about  it." 
He  heard  the  command  harshly  repeated.  He  saw  the 


168  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

look  of  irritation  on  Silsbee's  dusty,  bearded  face,  that 
followed  his  hurried  glance  into  the  empty  wagon.  He 
heard  the  query,  "What's  gone  o'  them  limbs  now?" 
handed  from  wagon  to  wagon.  He  heard  a  few  oaths; 
Mrs.  Silsbee's  high  rasping  voice,  abuse  of  himself,  the 
hurried  and  discontented  detachment  of  a  search  party, 
Silsbee  and  one  of  the  hired  men,  and  vociferation  and 
blame.  Blame  always  for  himself,  the  elder,  who  might 
have  "known  better !"  A  little  fear,  perhaps,  but  he 
could  not  fancy  either  pity  or  commiseration.  Perhaps 
the  thought  upheld  his  pride;  under  the  prospect  of  sym 
pathy  he  might  have  broken  down. 

At  last  he  stumbled,  and  stopped  to  keep  himself  from 
falling  forward  on  his  face.  He  could  go  no  further; 
his  breath  was  spent ;  he  was  dripping  with  perspiration ; 
his  legs  were  trembling  under  him;  there  was  a  roar 
ing  in  his  ears;  round  red  disks  of  the  sun  were  scat 
tered  everywhere  around  him  like  spots  of  blood.  To 
the  right  of  the  trail  there  seemed  to  be  a  slight  mound 
where  he  could  rest  awhile,  and  yet  keep  his  watchful 
survey  of  the  horizon.  But  on  reaching  it  he  found  that 
it  was  only  a  tangle  of  taller  mesquite  grass,  into  which 
he  sank  with  his  burden.  Nevertheless,  if  useless  as  a 
point  of  vantage,  it  offered  a  soft  couch  for  Susy,  who 
seemed  to  have  fallen  quite  naturally  into  her  usual 
afternoon  siesta,  and  in  a  measure  it  shielded  her  from 
a  cold  breeze  that  had  sprung  up  from  the  west.  Utterly 
exhausted  himself,  but  not  daring  to  yield  to  the  torpor 
that  seemed  to  be  creeping  over  him,  Clarence  half  sat, 
half  knelt  down  beside  her,  supporting  himself  with  one 
hand,  and,  partly  hidden  in  the  long  grass,  kept  his 
straining  eyes  fixed  on  the  lonely  track. 

The  red  disk  was  sinking  lower.  It  seemed  to  have 
already  crumbled  away  a  part  of  the  distance  with  its 
eating  fires.  As  it  sank  still  lower,  it  shot  out  long, 
luminous  rays,  diverging  fan-like  across  the  plain,  as  if, 
in  the  boy's  excited  fancy,  it  too  were  searching  for  the 
lost  estrays.  And  as  one  long  beam  seemed  to  linger 
over  his  hiding-place,  he  even  thought  that  it  might 
serve  as  a  guide  to  Silsbee  and  the  qther  seekers,  and. 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  169 

was  constrained  to  stagger  to  his  feet,  erect  in  its  light. 
But  it  soon  sank,  and  with  it  Clarence  dropped  back 
again  to  his  crouching  watch.  Yet  he  knew  that  the 
daylight  was  still  good  for  an  hour,  and  with  the  with 
drawal  of  that  mystic  sunset  glory  objects  became  even 
more  distinct  and  sharply  defined  than  at  any  other  time. 
And  with  the  merciful  sheathing  of  that  flaming  sword 
which  seemed  to  have  swayed  between  him  and  the 
vanished  train,  his  eyes  already  felt  a  blessed  relief. 


CHAPTER    III 

WITH  the  setting  of  the  sun  an  ominous  silence  fell. 
He  could  hear  the  low  breathing  of  Susy,  and  even 
fancied  he  could  hear  the  beating  of  his  own  heart  in 
that  oppressive  hush  of  all  nature.  For  the  day's  march 
had  always  been  accompanied  by  the  monotonous  creak 
ing  of  wheels  and  axles,  and  even  the  quiet  of  the  night 
encampment  had  been  always  more  or  less  broken  by  the 
movement  of  unquiet  sleepers  on  the  wagon  beds,  or  the 
breathing  of  the  cattle.  But  here  there  was  neither 
sound  nor  motion.  Susy's  prattle,  and  even  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  would  have  broken  the  benumbing 
spell,  but  it  was  a  part  of  his  growing  self-denial  now 
that  he  refrained  from  waking  her  even  by  a  whisper. 
She  would  awaken  soon  enough  to  thirst  and  hunger, 
perhaps,  and  then  what  was  he  to  do?  If  that  looked- 
for  help  would  only  come  now — while  she  still  slept. 
For  it  was  part  of  his  boyish  fancy  that  if  he  could 
deliver  her  asleep  and  undemonstrative  of  fear  and  suf 
fering,  he  would  be  less  blameful,  and  she  less  mindful  of 
her  trouble.  If  it  did  not  come — but  he  would  not  think 
of  that  yet !  If  she  was  thirsty  meantime — well,  it  might 
rain,  and  there  was  always  the  dew  which  they  used  to 
brush  off  the  morning  grass;  he  would  take  off  his  shirt 
and  catch  it  in  that,  like  a  shipwrecked  mariner.  It 
would  be  funny,  and  make  her  laugh.  For  himself  he 
would  not  laugh;  he  felt  he  was  getting  very  old  and 
grown  up  in  this  loneliness. 


170  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

It  was  getting  darker — they  should  be  looking  into  the 
wagons  now.  A  new  doubt  began  to  assail  him.  Ought 
he  not,  now  that  he  was  rested,  make  the  most  of  the 
remaining  moments  of  daylight,  and  before  the  glow 
faded  from  the  west,  when  he  would  no  longer  have  any 
bearings  to  guide  him?  But  there  was  always  the  risk  of 
waking  her! — to  what?  The  fear  of  being  confronted 
again  with  her  fear  and  of  being  unable  to  pacify  her, 
at  last  decided  him  to  remain.  But  he  crept  softly 
through  the  grass,  and  in  the  dust  of  the  track  traced 
the  four  points  of  the  compass,  as  he  could  still  deter 
mine  them  by  the  sunset  light,  with  a  large  printed  W 
to  indicate  the  west !  This  boyish  contrivance  particu 
larly  pleased  him.  If  he  had  only  had  a  pole,  a  stick, 
or  even  a  twig,  on  which  to  tie  his  handkerchief  and 
erect  it  above  the  clump  of  mesquite  as  a  signal  to  the 
searchers  in  case  they  should  be  overcome  by  fatigue  or 
sleep,  he  would  have  been  happy.  But  the  plain  was 
barren  of  brush  or  timber;  he  did  not  dream  that  this 
omission  and  the  very  unobtrusiveness  of  his  hiding- 
place  would  be  his  salvation  from  a  greater  danger. 

With  the  coming  darkness  the  wind  arose  and  swept 
the  plain  with  a  long-drawn  sigh.  This  increased  to  a 
murmur,  till  presently  the  whole  expanse — before  sunk 
in  awful  silence — seemed  to  awake  with  vague  com 
plaints,  incessant  sounds,  and  low  moanings.  At  times 
he  thought  he  heard  the  halloaing  of  distant  voices,  at 
times  it  seemed  as  a  whisper  in  his  own  ear.  In  the 
silence  that  followed  each  blast  he  fancied  he  could 
detect  the  creaking  of  the  wagon,  the  dull  thud  of  the 
oxen's  hoofs,  or  broken  fragments  of  speech,  blown  and 
scattered  even  as  he  strained  his  ears  to  listen  by  the 
next  gust.  This  tension  of  the  ear  began  to  confuse  his 
brain,  as  his  eyes  had  been  previously  dazzled  by  the 
sunlight,  and  a  strange  torpor  began  to  steal  over  his 
faculties.  Once  or  twice  his  head  dropped. 

He  awoke  with  a  start.  A  moving  figure  had  suddenly 
uplifted  itself  between  him  and  the  horizon !  It  was 
not  twenty  yards  away,  so  clearly  outlined"  against  the 
still  luminous  sky  that  it  seemed  even  nearer.  A  human 


A  WAIF  OF   THE   PLAINS  171 

figure,  but  so  disheveled,  so  fantastic,  and  yet  so  mean 
and  puerile  in  its  extravagance,  that  it  seemed  the  out 
come  of  a  childish  dream.  It  was  a  mounted  figure,  but 
so  ludicrously  disproportionate  to  the  pony  it  bestrode, 
whose  slim  legs  were  stiffly  buried  in  the  dust  in  a 
breathless  halt,  that  it  might  have  been  a  straggler  from 
some  vulgar  wandering  circus.  A  tall  hat,  crownless 
and  rimless,  a  castaway  of  civilization,  surmounted  by 
a  turkey's  feather,  was  on  its  head;  over  its  shoulders 
hung  a  dirty  tattered  blanket  that  scarcely  covered  the 
two  painted  legs  which  seemed  clothed  in  soiled  yellow 
hose.  In  one  hand  it  held  a  gun ;  the  other  was  bent 
above  its  eyes  in  eager  scrutiny  of  some  distant  point  be 
yond  and  east  of  the  spot  where  the  children  lay  concealed. 
Presently,  with  a  dozen  quick  noiseless  strides  of  the 
pony's  legs, -the  apparition  moved  to  the  right,  its  gaze 
still  fixed  on  that  mysterious  part  of  the  horizon. 
There  was  no  mistaking  it  now !  The  painted  Hebraic 
face,  the  large  curved  nose,  the  bony  cheek,  the  broad 
mouth,  the  shadowed  eyes,  the  straight  long  matted 
locks !  It  was  an  Indian !  Not  the  picturesque  creature 
of  Clarence's  imagination,  but  still  an  Indian!  The  boy 
was  uneasy,  suspicious,  antagonistic,  but  not  afraid.  He 
looked  at  the  heavy  animal  face  with  the  superiority  of 
intelligence,  at  the  half-naked  figure  with  the  conscious 
supremacy  of  dress,  at  the  lower  individuality  with  the 
contempt  of  a  higher  race.  Yet  a  moment  after,  when 
the  figure  wheeled  and  disappeared  towards  the  undulat 
ing  west,  a  strange  chill  crept  over  him.  Yet  he  did 
not  know  that  in  this  puerile  phantom  and  painted  pigmy 
the  awful  majesty  of  Death  had  passed  him  by. 

"Mamma !" 

It  was  Susy's  voice,  struggling  into  consciousness. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  instinctively  conscious  of  the  boy's 
sudden  fears. 

"Hush !" 

He  had  just  turned  to  the  objective  point  of  the 
Indian's  gaze.  There  was  something!  A  dark  line  was 
moving  along  with  the  gathering  darkness.  For  a 
moment  he  hardly  dared  to  voice  his  thoughts  even  to 


172  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

himself.  It  was  a  following  train  overtaking  them  from 
the  rear !  And  from  the  rapidity  of  its  movements  a 
train  with  horses,  hurrying  forward  to  evening  camp. 
He  had  never  dreamt  of  help  from  that  quarter.  This 
was  what  the  Indian's  keen  eyes  had  been  watching, 
and  why  he  had  so  precipitately  fled. 

The  strange  train  was  now  coming  up  at  a  round 
trot.  It  was  evidently  well  appointed  with  five  or  six 
large  wagons  and  several  outriders.  In  half  an  hour 
it  would  be  here.  Yet  he  refrained  from  waking  Susy, 
who  had  fallen  asleep  again;  his  old  superstition  of 
securing  her  safety  first  being  still  uppermost.  He  took 
off  his  jacket  to  cover  her  shoulders,  and  rearranged  her 
nest.  Then  he  glanced  again  at  the  coming  train.  But 
for  some  unaccountable  reason  it  had  changed  its  direc 
tion,  and  instead  of  following  the  track  that  should  have 
brought  it  to  his  side  it  had  turned  off  to  the  left !  In 
ten  minutes  it  would  pass  abreast  of  him  a  mile  and  a 
half  away !  If  he  woke  Susy  now,  he  knew  she  would 
he  helpless  in  her  terror,  and  he  could  not  carry  her  half 
that  distance.  He  might  rush  to  the  train  himself  and 
return  with  help,  but  he  would  never  leave  her  alone — 
in  the  darkness.  Never !  If  she  woke  she  would  die 
of  fright,  perhaps,  or  wander  blindly  and  aimlessly 
away.  No !  The  train  would  pass  and  with  it  that  hope 
of  rescue.  Something  was  in  his  throat,  but  he  gulped 
it  down  and  was  quiet  again  albeit  he  shivered  in  the 
night  wind. 

The  train  was  nearly  abreast  of  him  now.  He  ran  out 
of  the  tall  grass,  waving  his  straw  hat  above  his  head 
in  the  faint  hope  of  attracting  attention.  But  he  did  not 
go  far,  for  he  found  to  his  alarm  that  when  he  turned 
back  again  the  clump  of  mesquite  was  scarcely  distin 
guishable  from  the  rest  of  the  plain.  This  settled  all 
question  of  his  going.  Even  if  he  reached  the  train  and 
returned  with  some  one,  how  would  he  ever  find  her 
again  in  this  desolate  expanse? 

He  watched  the  train  slowly  pass — still  mechanically, 
almost  hopelessly,  waving  his  hat  as  he  ran  up  and  down 
before  the  mesquite,  as  if  he  were  waving  a  last  fare- 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  173 

well  to  his  departing  hope.  Suddenly  it  appeared  to  him 
that  three  of  the  outriders  who  were  preceding  the  first 
wagon  had  changed  their  shape.  They  were  no  longer 
sharp,  oblong,  black  blocks  against  the  horizon  but  had 
become  at  first  blurred  and  indistinct,  then  taller  and 
narrower,  until  at  last  they  stood  out  like  exclamation 
points  against  the  sky.  He  continued  to  wave  his  hat, 
they  continued  to  grow  taller  and  narrower.  He  under 
stood  it  now — the  three  transformed  blocks  were  the  out 
riders  coming  towards  him. 
This  is  what  he  had  seen — 

•    •    • 

This  is  what  he  saw  now — 

!    !    ! 

He  ran  back  to  Susy  to  see  if  she  still  slept,  for  his 
foolish  desire  to  have  her  saved  unconsciously  was 
stronger  than  ever  now  that  safety  seemed  so  near.  She 
was  still  sleeping,  although  she  had  moved  slightly.  He 
ran  to  the  front  again. 

The  outriders  had  apparently  halted.  What  were  they 
doing?  Why  wouldn't  they  come  on? 

Suddenly  a  blinding  flash  of  light  seemed  to  burst  from 
one  of  them.  Away  over  his  head  something  whistled 
like  a  rushing  bird,  and  sped  off  invisible.  They  had 
fired  a  gun;  they  were  signaling  to  him — Clarence — like 
a  grown-up  man.  He  would  have  given  his  life  at 
that  moment  to  have  had  a  gun.  But  he  could  only 
wave  his  hat  frantically. 

One  of  the  figures  here  bore  away  and  impetuously 
darted  forward  again.  He  was  coming  nearer,  powerful, 
gigantic,  formidable,  as  he  loomed  through  the  darkness. 
All  at  once  he  threw  up  his  arm  with  a  wild  gesture  to 
the  others;  and  his  voice,  manly,  frank,  and  assuring, 
came  ringing  before  him. 

"Hold  up  !     Good  God  !     It's  no  Injun — it's  a  child  !" 

In  another  moment  he  had  reined  up  beside  Clarence 
and  leaned  over  him,  bearded,  handsome,  powerful  and 
protecting. 

"Hallo !  What's  all  this  ?  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 


174  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

"Lost  from  Mr.  Silsbee's  train,"  said  Clarence,  point 
ing  to  the  darkened  west. 

"Lost? — how  long?" 

"About  three  hours.  I  thought  they'd  come  back  for 
us,"  said  Clarence  apologetically  to  this  big,  kindly  man. 

"And  you  kalkilated  to  wait  here  for  'em?" 

"Yes,  yes — I  did — till  I  saw  you." 

"Then  why  in  thunder  didn't  you  light  out  straight 
for  us,  instead  of  hanging  round  here  and  drawing  us 
out?" 

The  boy  hung  his  head.  He  knew  his  reasons  were 
unchanged,  but  all  at  once  they  seemed  very  foolish  and 
unmanly  to  speak  out. 

"Only  that  we  were  on  the  keen  jump  for  Injins," 
continued  the  stranger,  "we  wouldn't  have  seen  you  at 
all,  and  might  hev  shot  you  when  we  did.  What  pos 
sessed  you  to  stay  here  ?" 

The  boy  was  still  silent.  "Kla'uns,"  said  a  faint, 
sleepy  voice  from  the  mesquite,  "take  me."  The  rifle 
shot  had  awakened  Susy. 

The  stranger  turned  quickly  towards  the  sound.  Clar 
ence  started  and  recalled  himself.  "There,"  he  said  bit 
terly,  "you've  done  it  now,  you've  wakened  her !  That's 
why  I  stayed.  I  couldn't  carry  her  over  there  to  you. 
I  couldn't  let  her  walk,  for  she'd  be  frightened.  I 
wouldn't  wake  her  up,  for  she'd  be  frightened,  and  I 
mightn't  find  her  again.  There !  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  abused,  but  he  was  reckless  now  that  she 
was  safe. 

The  men  glanced  at  each  other.  "Then,"  said  the 
spokesman  quietly,  "you  didn't  strike  out  for  us  on 
account  of  your  sister?" 

"She  ain't  my  sister,"  said  Clarence  quickly.  "She's 
a  little  girl.  She's  Mrs.  Silsbee's  little  girl.  We  were 
in  the  wagon  and  got  down.  It's  my  fault.  I  helped 
her  down." 

The  three  men  reined  their  horses  closely  round  him, 
leaning  forward  from  their  saddles,  with  their  hands  on 
their  knees  and  their  heads  on  one  side.  "Then,"  said 
the  spokesman  gravely,  "you  just  reckoned  to  stay  here, 


A  WAIF  OP  THE  PLAINS  175 

old  man,  and  take  your  chances  with  her  rather  than 
run  the  risk  of  frightening  or  leaving  her — though  it 
was  your  one  chance  of  life !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  scornful  of  this  feeble,  grown-up 
repetition. 

"Come  here." 

The  boy  came  doggedly  forward.  The  man  pushed 
back  the  well-worn  straw  hat  from  Clarence's  forehead 
and  looked  into  his  lowering  face.  With  his  hand  still 
on  the  boy's  head  he  turned  him  round  to  the  others, 
and  said  quietly, — 

"Suthin  of  a  pup,  eh?" 

"You  bet,"  they  responded. 

The  voice  was  not  unkindly,  although  the  speaker  had 
thrown  his  lower  jaw  forward  as  if  to  pronounce  the  word 
"pup"  with  a  humorous  suggestion  of  a  mastiff.  Before 
Clarence  could  make  up  his  mind  if  the  epithet  was 
insulting  or  not,  the  man  put  out  his  stirruped  foot,  and, 
with  a  gesture  of  invitation,  said,  "Jump  up." 

"But  Susy,"  said  Clarence,  drawing  back. 

"Look;  she's  making  up  to  Phil  already." 

Clarence  looked.  Susy  had  crawled  out  of  the  mes- 
quite,  and  with  her  sun-bonnet  hanging  down  her  back, 
her  curls  tossed  around  her  face,  still  flushed  with  sleep, 
and  Clarence's  jacket  over  her  shoulders,  was  gazing  up 
with  grave  satisfaction  in  the  laughing  eyes  of  one  of 
the  men  who  was  with  outstretched  hands  bending  over 
her.  Could  he  believe  his  senses?  The  terror-stricken, 
willful,  unmanageable  Susy,  whom  he  would  have  trans 
lated  unconsciously  to  safety  without  this  terrible  ordeal 
of  being  awakened  to  the  loss  of  her  home  and  parents 
at  any  sacrifice  to  himself — this  ingenuous  infant  was 
absolutely  throwing  herself  with  every  appearance  of 
forgetfulness  into  the  arms  of  the  first  new-comer !  Yet 
his  perception  of  this  fact  was  accompanied  by  no  sense 
of  ingratitude.  For  her  sake  he  felt  relieved,  and  with 
a  boyish  smile  of  satisfaction  and  encouragement  vaulted 
into  the  saddle  before  the  stranger. 


176  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  dash  forward  to  the  train,  securely  held  in  the 
saddle  by  the  arms  of  their  deliverers,  was  a  secret  joy 
to  the  children  that  seemed  only  too  quickly  over.  The 
resistless  gallop  of  the  fiery  mustangs,  the  rush  of  the 
night  wind,  the  gathering  darkness  in  which  the  distant 
wagons,  now  halted  and  facing  them,  looked  like  domed 
huts  in  the  horizon — all  these  seemed  but  a  delightful  and 
fitting  climax  to  the  events  of  the  day.  In  the  sublime  for- 
getfulness  of  youth,  all  they  had  gone  through  had  left  no 
embarrassing  record  behind  it ;  they  were  willing  to  repeat 
their  experiences  on  the  morrow,  confident  of  some  equally 
happy  end.  And  when  Clarence,  timidly  reaching  his 
hand  towards  the  horse-hair  reins  lightly  held  by  his 
companion,  had  them  playfully  yielded  up  to  him  by  that 
bold  and  confident  rider,  the  boy  felt  himself  indeed  a 
man. 

But  a  greater  surprise  was  in  store  for  them.  As  they 
neared  the  wagons,  now  formed  into  a  circle  with  a  cer 
tain  degree  of  military  formality,  they  could  see  that  the 
appointments  of  the  strange  party  were  larger  and  more 
liberal  than  their  own,  or  indeed  anything  they  had  ever 
known  of  the  kind.  Forty  or  fifty  horses  were  tethered 
within  the  circle,  and  the  camp  fires  were  already  blazing. 
Before  one  of  them  a  large  tent  was  erected,  and  through 
the  parted  flaps  could  be  seen  a  table  actually  spread  with 
a  white  cloth.  Was  it  a  school  feast,  or  was  this  their 
ordinary  household  arrangement?  Clarence  and  Susy 
thought  of  their  own  dinners,  usually  laid  on  bare  boards 
beneath  the  sky,  or  under  the  low  hood  of  the  wagon  in 
rainy  weather,  and  marveled.  And  when  they  finally 
halted,  and  were  lifted  from  their  horses,  and  passed  one 
wagon  fitted  up  as  a  bedroom  and  another  as  a  kitchen, 
they  could  only  nudge  each  other  with  silent  appreciation. 
But  here  again  the  difference  already  noted  in  the  quality 
of  the  sensations  of  the  two  children  was  observable. 
Both  were  equally  and  agreeably  surprised.  But  Susy's 
wonder  was  merely  the  sense  of  novelty  and  inexperience, 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  177 

and  a  slight  disbelief  in  the  actual  necessity  of  what  she 
saw ;  while  Clarence,  whether  from  some  previous  general 
experience  or  peculiar  temperament,  had  the  conviction 
that  what  he  saw  here  was  the  usual  custom,  and  what 
he  had  known  with  the  Silsbees  was  the  novelty.  The 
feeling  was  attended  with  a  slight  sense  of  wounded 
pride  for  Susy,  as  if  her  enthusiasm  had  exposed  her 
to  ridicule. 

The  man  who  had  carried  him,  and  seemed  to  be  the 
head  of  the  party,  had  already  preceded  them  to  the  tent, 
and  presently  reappeared  with  a  lady  with  whom  he  had 
exchanged  a  dozen  hurried  words.  They  seemed  to  refer 
to  him  and  Susy;  but  Clarence  was  too  much  preoccu 
pied  with  the  fact  that  the  lady  was  pretty,  that  her 
clothes  were  neat  and  thoroughly  clean,  that  her  hair  was 
tidy  and  not  rumpled,  and  that,  although  she  wore  an 
apron,  it  was  as  clean  as  her  gown,  and  even  had  rib 
bons  on  it,  to  listen  to  what  was  said.  And  when  she 
ran  eagerly  forward,  and  with  a  fascinating  smile  lifted 
the  astonished  Susy  in  her  arms,  Clarence,  in  his  delight 
for  his  young  charge,  quite  forgot  that  she  had  not  noticed 
him.  The  bearded  man,  who  seemed  to  be  the  lady's  hus 
band,  evidently  pointed  out  the  omission,  with  some  addi 
tions  that  Clarence  could  not  catch ;  for  after  saying,  with 
a  pretty  pout,  "Well,  why  shouldn't  he?"  she  came  for 
ward  with  the  same  dazzling  smile,  and  laid  her  small  and 
clean  white  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"And  so  you  took  good  care  of  the  dear  little  thing? 
She's  such  an  angel,  isn't  she?  and  you  must  love  her 
very  much." 

Clarence  colored  with  delight.  It  was  true  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  look  at  Susy  in  the  light  of  a  celestial 
visitant,  and  I  fear  he  was  just  then  more  struck  with 
the  fair  complimenter  than  the  compliment  to  his  com 
panion,  but  he  was  pleased  for  her  sake.  He  was  not  yet 
old  enough  to  be  conscious  of  the  sex's  belief  in  its  irre 
sistible  domination  over  mankind  at  all  ages,  and  that 
Johnny  in  his  check  apron  would  be  always  a  hopeless 
conquest  of  Jeannette  in  her  pinafore,  and  that  he  ought 
to  have  been  in  love  with  Susy. 


178  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

Howbeit,  the  lady  .suddenly  whisked  her  away  to  the 
recesses  of  her  own  wagon,  to  reappear  later,  washed, 
curled,  and  beribboned  like  a  new  doll,  and  Clarence  was 
left  alone  with  the  husband  and  another  of  the  party. 

"Well,  my  boy,  you  haven't  told  me  your  name  yet." 

"Clarence,  sir." 

"So  Susy  calls  you,  but  what  else?" 

"Clarence  Brant." 

"Any  relation  to  Colonel  Brant?"  asked  the  second 
man  carelessly. 

"He  was  my  father,"  said  the  boy,  brightening  under 
this  faint  prospect  of  recognition  in  his  loneliness. 

The  two  men  glanced  at  each  other.  The  leader  looked 
at  the  boy  curiously,  and  said, — 

"Are  you  the  son  of  Colonel  Brant,  of  Louisville?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  dim  stirring  of  uneasi 
ness  in  his  heart.  "But  he's  dead  now,"  he  added  finally. 

"Ah,  when  did  he  die?"  said  the  man  quickly. 

"Oh,  a  long  time  ago.  I  don't  remember  him  much.  I 
was  very  little,"  said  the  boy,  half  apologetically. 

"Ah,  you  don't  remember  him?" 

"No,"  said  Clarence  shortly.  He  was  beginning  to  fall 
back  upon  that  certain  dogged  repetition  which  in  sensi 
tive  children  arises  from  their  hopeless  inability  to  express 
their  deeper  feelings.  He  also  had  an  instinctive  con 
sciousness  that  this  want  of  a  knowledge  of  his  father 
was  part  of  that  vague  wrong  that  had  been  done  him. 
It  did  not  help  his  uneasiness  that  he  could  see  that  one 
of  the  two  men,  who  turned  away  with  a  half-laugh, 
misunderstood  or  did  not  believe  him. 

"How  did  you  come  with  the  Silsbees?"  asked  the 
first  man. 

Clarence  repeated  mechanically,  with  a  child's  distaste 
of  practical  details,  how  he  had  lived  with  an  aunt  at 
St.  Jo,  and  how  his  stepmother  had  procured  his  passage 
with  the  Silsbees  to  California,  where  he  was  to  meet  his 
cousin.  All  this  with  a  lack  of  interest  and  abstraction 
that  he  was  miserably  conscious  told  against  him,  but 
he  was  yet  helpless  to  resist. 

The  first  man  remained  thoughtful,  and  then  glanced 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  179 

at  Clarence's  sunburnt  hands.  Presently  his  large,  good- 
humored  smile  returned. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  are  hungry  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence  shyly.     "But — " 

"But  what?" 

"I  should  like  to  wash  myself  a  little,"  he  returned  hesi 
tatingly,  thinking  of  the  clean  tent,  the  clean  lady,  and 
Susy's  ribbons. 

"Certainly,"  said  his  friend,  with  a  pleased  look.  "Come 
with  me."  Instead  of  leading  Clarence  to  the  battered  tin 
basin  and  bar  of  yellow  soap  which  had  formed  the  toilet 
service  of  the  Silsbee  party,  he  brought  the  boy  into  one 
of  the  wagons,  where  there  was  a  washstand,  a  china 
basin,  and  a  cake  of  scented  soap.  Standing  beside  Clar 
ence,  he  watched  him  perform  his  ablutions  with  an 
approving  air  which  rather  embarrassed  his  protege. 
Presently  he  said,  almost  abruptly, — 

"Do  you  remember  your  father's  house  at  Louisville?" 

"Yes,  sir ;  but  it  was  a  long  time  ago." 

Clarence  remembered  it  as  being  very  different  from 
his  home  at  St.  Joseph's,  but  from  some  innate  feeling 
of  diffidence  he  would  have  shrunk  from  describing  it  in 
that  way.  He,  however,  said  he  thought  it  was  a  large 
house.  Yet  the  modest  answer  only  made  his  new  friend 
look  at  him  the  more  keenly. 

"Your  father  was  Colonel  Hamilton  Brant,  of  Louis 
ville,  wasn't  he?"  he  said,  half-confidentially. 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence  hopelessly. 

"Well,"  said  his  friend  cheerfully,  as  if  dismissing  an 
abstruse  problem  from  his  mind,  "Let's  go  to  supper." 

When  they  reached  the  tent  again,  Clarence  noticed 
that  the  supper  was  laid  only  for  his  host  and  wife  and 
the  second  man — who  was  familiarly  called  "Harry,"  but 
who  spoke  of  the  former  always  as  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pey 
ton" — while  the  remainder  of  the  party,  a  dozen  men, 
were  at  a  second  camp  fire,  and  evidently  enjoying  them 
selves  in  a  picturesque  fashion.  Had  the  boy  been  allowed 
to  choose,  he  would  have  joined  them,  partly  because  it 
seemed  more  "manly,"  and  partly  that  he  dreaded  a 
renewal  of  the  questioning. 


180  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

But  here,  Susy,  sitting  bolt  upright  on  an  extemporized 
high  stool,  happily  diverted  his  attention  by  pointing  to 
the  empty  chair  beside  her. 

"Kla'uns,"  she  said  suddenly,  with  her  usual  clear  and 
appalling  frankness,  "they  is  chickens,  and  hamanaigs,  and 
hot  biksquits,  and  lasses,  and  Mister  Peyton  says  I  kin 
have  'em  all." 

Clarence,  who  had  begun  suddenly  to  feel  that  he  was 
responsible  for  Susy's  deportment,  and  was  balefully  con 
scious  that  she  was  holding  her  plated  fork  in  her  chubby 
fist  by  its  middle,  and,  from  his  previous  knowledge  of 
her,  was  likely  at  any  moment  to  plunge  it  into  the  dish 
before  her,  said  softly, — 

"Hush !" 

"Yes,  you  shall,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  with  tenderly 
beaming  assurance  to  Susy  and  a  half-reproachful  glance 
at  the  boy.  "Eat  what  you  like,  darling." 

"It's  a  fork,"  whispered  the  still  uneasy  Clarence,  as 
Susy  now  seemed  inclined  to  stir  her  bowl  of  milk 
with  it. 

"  'Tain't,  now,  Kla'uns,  it's  only  a  split  spoon,"  said 
Susy. 

But  Mrs.  Peyton,  in  her  rapt  admiration,  took  small 
note  of  these  irregularities,  plying  the  child  with  food, 
forgetting  her  own  meal,  and  only  stopping  at  times  to 
lift  back  the  forward  straying  curls  on  Susy's  shoulders. 
Mr.  Peyton  looked  on  gravely  and  contentedly.  Sud 
denly  the  eyes  of  husband  and  wife  met. 

"She'd  have  been  nearly  as  old  as  this,  John,"  said  Mrs. 
Peyton,  in  a  faint  voice. 

John  Peyton  nodded  without  speaking,  and  turned  his 
eyes  away  into  the  gathering  darkness.  The  man  "Harry" 
also  looked  abstractedly  at  his  plate,  as  if  he  was  saying 
grace.  Clarence  wondered  who  "she"  was,  and  why  tv/o 
little  tears  dropped  from  Mrs.  Peyton's  lashes  into  Susy's 
milk,  and  whether  Susy  might  not  violently  object  to  it. 
He  did  not  know  until  later  that  the  Peytons  had  lost 
their  only  child,  and  Susy  comfortably  drained  this 
mingled  cup  of  a  mother's  grief  and  tenderness  without 
suspicion. 


A   WAIF  OF   THE   PLAINS  181 

"I  suppose  we'll  come  up  with  their  train  early  to 
morrow,  if  some  of  them  don't  find  us  to-night,"  said 
Mrs.  Peyton,  with  a  long  sigh  and  a  regretful  glance  at 
Susy.  "Perhaps  we  might  travel  together  for  a  little 
while,''  she  added  timidly. 

Harry  laughed,  and  Mr.  Peyton  replied  gravely,  "I 
am  afraid  we  wouldn't  travel  with  them,  even  for  com 
pany's  sake;  and,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  and  graver  voice, 
"it's  rather  odd  the  search  party  hasn't  come  upon  us 
yet,  though  I'm  keeping  Pete  and  Hank  patrolling  the 
trail  to  meet  them." 

"It's  heartless — so  it  is !"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  with 
sudden  indignation.  "It  would  be  all  very  well  if 
it  was  only  this  boy,  who  can  take  care  of  himself; 
but  to  be  so  careless  of  a  mere  baby  like  this,  it's 
shameful !" 

For  the  first  time  Clarence  tasted  the  cruelty  of  dis 
crimination.  All  the  more  keenly  that  he  was  beginning 
to  worship,  after  his  boyish  fashion,  this  sweet-faced, 
clean,  and  tender-hearted  woman.  Perhaps  Mr.  Peyton 
noticed  it,  for  he  came  quietly  to  his  aid. 

"Maybe  they  knew  better  than  we  in  what  careful 
hands  they  had  left  her,"  he  said,  with  a  cheerful  nod 
towards  Clarence.  "And,  again,  they  may  have  been 
fooled  as  we  were  by  Injin  signs  and  left  the  straight 
road." 

This  suggestion  instantly  recalled  to  Clarence  his  vision 
in  the  mesquite.  Should  he  dare  tell  them?  Would  they 
believe  him,  or  would  they  laugh  at  him  before  her?  He 
hesitated,  and  at  last  resolved  to  tell  it  privately  to  the 
husband.  When  the  meal  was  ended,  and  he  was  made 
happy  by  Mrs.  Peyton's  laughing  acceptance  of  his  offer 
to  help  her  clear  the  table  and  wash  the  dishes,  they  all 
gathered. comfortably  in  front  of  the  tent  before  the  large 
camp  fire.  At  the  other  fire  the  rest  of  the  party  were 
playing  cards  and  laughing,  but  Clarence  no  longer  cared 
to  join  them.  He  was  quite  tranquil  in  the  maternal  pro 
pinquity  of  his  hostess,  albeit  a  little  uneasy  as  to  his 
reticence  about  the  Indian. 

"Kla'uns,"   said    Susy,    relieving   a   momentary   pause, 


182  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

in  her  highest  voice,  "knows  how  to  speak.  Speak, 
Kla'uns !" 

It  appearing  from  Clarence's  blushing  explanation  that 
this  gift  was  not  the  ordinary  faculty  of  speech,  but  a 
capacity  to  recite  verse,  he  was  politely  pressed  by  the 
company  for  a  performance. 

"Speak  'em,  Kla'uns,  the  boy  what  stood  unto  the  burn- 
in'  deck,  and  said,  'The  boy,  oh,  where  was  he  ?'  "  said 
Susy,  comfortably  lying  down  on  Mrs.  Peyton's  lap,  and 
contemplating  her  bare  knees  in  the  air.  "It's  'bout  a 
boy,"  she  added  confidentially  to  Mrs.  Peyton,  "whose 
father  wouldn't  never,  never  stay  with  him  on  a  burn- 
in'  ship,  though  he  said,  'Stay,  father,  stay,'  ever  so 
much." 

With  this  clear,  lucid,  and  perfectly  satisfactory  ex 
planation  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  "Casabianca,"  Clarence  be 
gan.  Unfortunately,  his  actual  rendering  of  this  popular 
school  performance  was  more  an  effort  of  memory  than 
anything  else,  and  was  illustrated  by  those  wooden  ges 
tures  which  a  Western  schoolmaster  had  taught  him.  He 
described  the  flames  that  "roared  around  him,"  by  indi 
cating  with  his  hand  a  perfect  circle,  of  which  he  was  the 
axis;  he  adjured  his  father,  the  late  Admiral  Casabianca, 
by  clasping  his  hands  before  his  chin,  as  if  wanting  to  be 
manacled  in  an  attitude  which  he  was  miserably  conscious 
was  unlike  anything  he  himself  had  ever  felt  or  seen 
before;  he  described  that  father  "faint  in  death  below," 
and  "the  flag  on  high,"  with  one  single  motion.  Yet 
something  that  the  verses  had  kindled  in  his  active  imag 
ination,  perhaps,  rather  than  an  illustration  of  the  verses 
themselves,  at  times  brightened  his  gray  eyes,  became 
tremulous  in  his  youthful  voice,  and  I  fear  occasionally 
incoherent  on  his  lips.  At  times,  when  not  conscious  of 
his  affected  art,  the  plain  and  all  upon  it  seemed  to  him 
to  slip  away  into  the  night,  the  blazing  camp  fire  at  his 
feet  to  wrap  him  in  a  fateful  glory,  and  a  vague  devo 
tion  to  something — he  knew  not  what — so  possessed  him 
that  he  communicated  it,  and  probably  some  of  his  own 
youthful  delight  in  extravagant  voice,  to  his  hearers,  until, 
when  he  ceased  with  a  glowing  face,  he  was  surprised  to 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  183 

find  that  the  card  players  had  deserted  their  camp  fires 
and  gathered  round  the  tent. 


CHAPTER  V 

"You  didn't  say  'Stay,  father,  stay,'  enough,  Kla'uns," 
said  Susy  critically.  Then  suddenly  starting  upright  in 
Mrs.  Peyton's  lap,  she  continued  rapidly,  "I  kin  dance. 
And  sing.  I  kin  dance  High  Jambooree." 

"What's  High  Jambooree,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Peyton. 

"You'll  see.  Lemme  down."  And  Susy  slipped  to  the 
ground. 

The  dance  of  High  Jambooree,  evidently  of  remote  mys 
tical  African  origin,  appeared  to  consist  of  three  small 
skips  to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left,  accompanied  by  the 
holding  up  of  very  short  skirts,  incessant  "teetering"  on 
the  toes  of  small  feet,  the  exhibition  of  much  bare  knee 
and  stocking,  and  a  gurgling  accompaniment  of  childish 
laughter.  Vehemently  applauded,  it  left  the  little  per 
former  breathless,  but  invincible  and  ready  for  fresh 
conquest. 

"I  kin  sing,  too,"  she  gasped  hurriedly,  as  if  unwilling 
that  the  applause  should  lapse.  "I  kin  sing.  Oh,  dear ! 
Kla'uns,"  piteously,  "what  is  it  I  sing?" 

"Ben  Bolt,"  suggested  Clarence. 

"Oh,  yes.  Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alers  Ben 
Bolt  ?"  began  Susy,  in  the  same  breath  and  the  wrong  key. 
"Sweet  Alers,  with  hair  so  brown,  who  wept  with  delight 
when  you  giv'd  her  a  smile,  and — "  with  knitted  brows 
and  appealing  recitative,  "what's  er  rest  of  it,  Kla'uns?" 

"Who  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown?"  prompted 
Clarer.ce. 

"Who  trembled  with  fear  at  my  frown?"  shrilled  Susy. 
"I  forget  er  rest.  Wait !  I  kin  sing — 

"Praise  God,"  suggested  Clarence. 

"Yes."  Here  Susy,  a  regular  attendant  in  camp  and 
prayer-meetings,  was  on  firmer  ground. 

Promptly  lifting  her  high  treble,  yet  with  a  certain 
acquired  deliberation,  she  began,  "Praise  God,  from  whom 


184  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

all  blessings  flow."  At  the  end  of  the  second  line  the 
whispering  and  laughing  ceased.  A  deep  voice  to  the 
right,  that  of  the  champion  poker  player,  suddenly  rose 
on  the  swell  of  the  third  line.  He  was  instantly  fol 
lowed  by  a  dozen  ringing  voices,  and  by  the  time  the 
last  line  was  reached  it  was  given  with  a  full  chorus,  in 
which  the  dull  chant  of  teamsters  and  drivers  mingled 
with  the  soprano  of  Mrs.  Peyton  and  Susy's  childish  treble. 
Again  and  again  it  was  repeated,  with  forgetful  eyes  and 
abstracted  faces,  rising  and  falling  with  the  night  wind 
and  the  leap  and  gleam  of  the  camp  fires,  and  fading  again 
like  them  in  the  immeasurable  mystery  of  the  darkened 
plain. 

In  the  deep  and  embarrassing  silence  that  followed,  at 
last  the  party  hesitatingly  broke  up,  Mrs.  Peyton  retiring 
with  Susy  after  offering  the  child  to  Clarence  for  a  per 
functory  "good-night"  kiss,  an  unusual  proceeding,  which 
somewhat  astonished  them  both — and  Clarence  found  him 
self  near  Mr.  Peyton. 

"I  think,"  said  Clarence  timidly,  "I  saw  an  Injin 
to-day." 

Mr.  Peyton  bent  down  towards  him.  "An  Injin — 
where?"  he  asked  quickly,  with  the  same  look  of  doubting 
interrogatory  with  which  he  had  received  Clarence's  name 
and  parentage. 

The  boy  for  a  moment  regretted  having  spoken.  But 
with  his  old  doggedness  he  particularized  his  statement. 
Fortunately,  being  gifted  with  a  keen  perception,  he  was 
able  to  describe  the  stranger  accurately,  and  to  impart 
with  his  description  that  contempt  for  its  subject  which 
he  had  felt,  and  which  to  his  frontier  auditor  established 
its  truthfulness.  Peyton  turned  abruptly  away,  but  pres 
ently  returned  with  Harry  and  another  man. 

"You  are  sure  of  this?"  said  Peyton,  half-encour- 
agingly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"As  sure  as  you  are  that  your  father  is  Colonel  Brant 
and  is  dead?"  said  Harry,  with  a  light  laugh. 

Tears  sprang  into  the  boy's  lowering  eyes.  "I  don't 
lie,"  he  said  doggedly. 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  185 

"I  believe  you,  Clarence,"  said  Peyton  quietly.  "But 
why  didn't  you  say  it  before?" 

"I  didn't  like  to  say  it  before  Susy  and — her !"  stam 
mered  the  boy. 

"Her?" 

"Yes,  sir — Mrs.  Peyton,"  said  Clarence  blushingly. 

"Oh,"  said  Harry  sarcastically,  "how  blessed  polite 
we  are !" 

"That'll  do.  Let  up  on  him,  will  you?"  said  Peyton, 
roughly,  to  his  subordinate.  "The  boy  knows  what  he's 
about.  But,"  he  continued,  addressing  Clarence,  "how 
was  it  the  Injin  didn't  see  you?" 

"I  was  very  still  on  account  of  not  waking  Susy,"  said 
Clarence,  "and — "  He  hesitated. 

"And  what?" 

"He  seemed  more  keen  watching  what  you  were  doing," 
said  the  boy  boldly. 

"That's  so,"  broke  in  the  second  man,  who  happened 
to  be  experienced,  "and  as  he  was  to  wind'ard  o'  the  boy 
he  was  off  his  scent  and  bearings.  He  was  one  of  their 
rear  scouts ;  the  rest  o'  them's  ahead  crossing  our  track  to 
cut  us  off.  Ye  didn't  see  anything  else?" 

"I  saw  a  coyote  first,"  said  Clarence,  greatly  en 
couraged. 

"Hold  on !"  said  the  expert,  as  Harry  turned  away 
with  a  sneer.  "That's  a  sign,  too.  Wolf  don't  go  where 
wolf  hez  been,  and  coyote  don't  f oiler  Injins — there's  no 
pickin's !  How  long  afore  did  you  see  the  coyote  ?" 

"Just  after  we  left  the  wagon,"  said  Clarence. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  man,  thoughtfully.  "He  was  driven 
on  ahead,  or  hanging  on  their  flanks.  These  Injins  are 
betwixt  us  and  that  ar  train,  or  following  it." 

Peyton  made  a  hurried  gesture  of  warning,  as  if  re 
minding  the  speaker  of  Clarence's  presence — a  gesture 
which  the  boy  noticed  and  wondered  at.  Then  the  con 
versation  of  the  three  men  took  a  lower  tone,  although 
Clarence  distinctly  heard  the  concluding  opinion  of  the 
expert. 

"It  ain't  no  good  now,  Mr.  Peyton,  and  you'd  be  only 
exposing  yourself  on  their  ground  by  breakin'  camp  agin 


186  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

to-night.  And  you  don't  know  that  it  ain't  us  they're 
watchin'.  You  see,  if  we  hadn't  turned  off  the  straight 
road  when  we  got  that  first  scare  from  these  yer  lost 
children,  we  might  hev  gone  on  and  walked  plump  into 
some  cursed  trap  of  those  devils.  To  my  mind,  we're 
just  in  nigger  luck,  and  with  a  good  watch  and  my  patrol 
we're  all  right  to  be  fixed  where  we  be  till  daylight." 

Mr.  Peyton  presently  turned  away,  taking  Clarence 
with  him.  "As  we'll  be  up  early  and  on  the  track  of 
your  train  to-morrow,  my  boy,  you  had  better  turn  in 
now.  I've  put  you  up  in  my  wagon,  and  as  I  expect  to 
be  in  the  saddle  most  of  the  night,  I  reckon  I  won't 
trouble  you  much."  He  led  the  way  to  a  second  wagon — 
drawn  up  beside  the  one  where  Susy  and  Mrs.  Peyton  had 
retired — which  Clarence  was  surprised  to  find  fitted  with 
a  writing  table  and  desk,  a  chair,  and  even  a  bookshelf 
containing  some  volumes.  A  long  locker,  fitted  like  a 
lounge,  had  been  made  up  as  a  couch  for  him, 
with  the  unwonted  luxury  of  clean  white  sheets 
and  pillow-cases.  A  soft  matting  covered  the  floor  of 
the  heavy  wagon  bed,  which,  Mr.  Peyton  explained,  was 
hung  on  centre  springs  to  prevent  jarring.  The  sides 
and  roof  of  the  vehicle  were  of  lightly  paneled  wood, 
instead  of  the  usual  hooked  canvas  frame  of  the  ordinary 
emigrant  wagon,  and  fitted  with  a  glazed  door  and  mov 
able  window  for  light  and  air.  Clarence  wondered  why 
the  big,  powerful  man,  who  seemed  at  home  on  horse 
back,  should  ever  care  to  sit  in  this  office  like  a  merchant 
or  a  lawyer;  and  if  this  train  sold  things  to  the  other 
trains,  or  took  goods,  like  the  peddlers,  to  towns  on  the 
route;  but  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  sell,  and  the 
other  wagons  were  filled  with  only  the  goods  required  by 
the  party.  He  would  have  liked  to  ask  Mr.  Peyton  who 
he  was,  and  have  questioned  him  as  freely  as  he  himself 
had  been  questioned.  But  as  the  average  adult  man  never 
takes  into  consideration  the  injustice  of  denying  to  the 
natural  and  even  necessary  curiosity  of  childhood  that 
questioning  which  he  himself  is  so  apt  to  assume  with 
out  right,  and  almost  always  without  delicacy,  Clarence 
had  no  recourse.  Yet  the  boy,  like  all  children,  was  con- 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  187 

scious  that  if  he  had  been  afterwards  questioned  about 
this  inexplicable  experience,  he  would  have  been  blamed 
for  his  ignorance  concerning  it.  Left  to  himself  pres 
ently,  and  ensconced  between  the  sheets,  he  lay  for  some 
moments  staring  about  him.  The  unwonted  comfort  of 
his  couch,  so  different  from  the  stuffy  blanket  i  the  hard 
wagon  bed  which  he  had  shared  with  o->e  of  the  team 
sters,  and  the  novelty,  order,  and  cleanliness  of  his  sur 
roundings,  while  they  were  grateful  to  his  instincts,  began 
in  some  vague  way  to  depress  him.  To  his  loyal  nature 
it  seemed  a  tacit  infidelity  to  his  former  rough  companions 
to  be  lying  here ;  he  had  a  dim  idea  that  he  had  lost  that 
independence  which  equal  discomfort  and  equal  pleasure 
among  them  had  given  him.  There  seemed  a  sense  of 
servitude  in  accepting  this  luxury  which  was  not  his. 
This  set  him  endeavoring  to  remember  something  of  his 
father's  house,  of  the  large  rooms,  drafty  staircases,  and 
far-off  ceilings,  and  the  cold  formality  of  a  life  that 
seemed  made  up  of  strange  faces ;  some  stranger — his 
parents ;  some  kinder — the  servants ;  particularly  the  black 
nurse  who  had  him  in  charge.  Why  did  Mr.  Peyton  ask 
him  about  it?  Why,  if  it  were  so  important  to  strangers, 
had  not  his  mother  told  him  more  of  it?  And  why  was 
she  not  like  this  good  woman  with  the  gentle  voice  who 
was  so  kind  to — to  Susy?  And  what  did  they  mean  by 
making  him  so  miserable?  Something  rose  in  his  throat, 
but  with  an  effort  he  choked  it  back,  and,  creeping  from 
the  lounge,  went  softly  to  the  window,  opened  it  to  see 
if  it  "would  work,"  and  looked  out.  The  shrouded  camp 
fires,  the  stars  that  glittered  but  gave  no  light,  the  dim 
moving  bulk  of  a  patrol  beyond  the  circle,  all  seemed  to 
intensify  the  darkness,  and  changed  the  current  of  his 
thoughts.  He  remembered  what  Mr.  Peyton  had  said  of 
him  when  they  first  met.  "Suthin  of  a  pup,  ain't  he?" 
Surely  that  meant  something  that  was  not  bad!  He 
crept  back  to  the  couch  again. 

Lying  there,  still  awake,  he  reflected  that  he  wouldn't 
be  a  scout  when  he  grew  up,  but  would  be  something  like 
Mr.  Peyton,  and  have  a  train  like  this,  and  invite  the 
Silsbees  and  Susy  to  accompany  him.  For  this  purpose, 


188  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

he  and  Susy,  early  to-morrow  morning,  would  get  per 
mission  to  come  in  here  and  play  at  that  game.  This 
would  familiarize  him  with  the  details,  so  that  he  would 
be  able  at  any  time  to  take  charge  of  it.  He  was  already 
an  authority  on  the  subject  of  Indians!  He  had  once 
been  fired  at — as  an  Indian.  He  would  always  carry  a 
rifle  like  that  hanging  from  the  hooks  at  the  end  of  the 
wagon  before  him,  and  would  eventually  slay  many  In 
dians  and  keep  an  account  of  them  in  a  big  book  like  that 
on  the  desk.  Susy  would  help  him,  having  grown  up  a 
lady,  and  they  would  both  together  issue  provisions  and 
rations  from  the  door  of  the  wagon  to  the  gathered  crowds. 
He  would  be  known  as  the  "White  Chief,"  his  Indian 
name  being  "Suthin  of  a  Pup."  He  would  have  a  circus 
van  attached  to  the  train,  in  which  he  would  occasion 
ally  perform.  He  would  also  have  artillery  for  protection. 
There  would  be  a  terrific  engagement,  and  he  would  rush 
into  the  wagon,  heated  and  blackened  with  gunpowder; 
and  Susy  would  put  down  an  account  of  it  in  a  book,  and 
Mrs.  Peyton — for  she  would  be  there  in  some  vague 
capacity — would  say,  "Really,  now,  I  don't  see  but  what 
we  were  very  lucky  in  having  such  a  boy  as  Clarence 
with  us.  I  begin  to  understand  him  better."  And  Harry, 
who,  for  purposes  of  vague  poetical  retaliation,  would 
also  drop  in  at  that  moment,  would  mutter  and  say,  "He 
is  certainly  the  son  of  Colonel  Brant;  dear  me!"  and 
apologize.  And  his  mother  would  come  in  also,  in  her 
coldest  and  most  indifferent  manner,  in  a  white  ball  dress, 
and  start  and  say,  "Good  gracious,  how  that  boy  has 
grown !  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  see  more  of  him  when  he 
was  young."  Yet  even  in  the  midst  of  this  came  a  con 
fusing  numbness,  and  then  the  side  of  the  wagon  seemed 
to  melt  away,  and  he  drifted  out  again  alone  into  the 
empty  desolate  plain  from  which  even  the  sleeping  Susy 
had  vanished,  and  he  was  left  deserted  and  forgotten. 
Then  all  was  quiet  in  the  wagon,  and  only  the  night  wind 
moving  round  it.  But  lo !  the  lashes  of  the  sleeping 
White  Chief — the  dauntless  leader,  the  ruthless  destroyer 
of  Indians — were  wet  with  glittering  tears ! 

Yet  it  seemed  only  a  moment  afterwards  that  he  awoke 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  189 

with  a  faint  consciousness  of  some  arrested  motion.  To 
his  utter  consternation,  the  sun,  three  hours  high,  was 
shining  in  the  wagon,  already  hot  and  stifling  in  its  beams. 
There  was  the  familiar  smell  and  taste  of  the  dirty  road 
in  the  air  about  him.  There  was  a  faint  creaking  of 
boards  and  springs,  a  slight  oscillation,  and  beyond  the 
audible  rattle  of  harness,  as  if  the  train  had  been  under 
way,  the  wagon  moving,  and  then  there  had  been  a  sud 
den  halt.  They  had  probably  come  up  with  the  Silsbee 
train ;  in  a  few  moments  the  change  would  be  effected 
and  all  of  his  strange  experience  would  be  over.  He 
must  get  up  now.  Yet,  with  the  morning  laziness  of  the 
healthy  young  animal,  he  curled  up  a  n  oment  longer  in 
his  luxurious  couch. 

How  quiet  it  was !  There  were  far-off  voices,  but  they 
seemed  suppressed  and  hurried.  Through  the  window  he 
saw  one  of  the  teamsters  run  rapidly  past  him  with  a 
strange,  breathless,  preoccupied  face,  halt  a  moment  at 
one  of  the  following  wagons,  and  then  run  back  again 
to  the  front. 

Then  two  of  the  voices  came  nearer,  with  the  dull  beat 
ing  of  hoofs  in  the  dust. 

"Rout  out  the  boy  and  ask  him,"  said  a  half-suppressed, 
impatient  voice,  which  Clarence  at  once  recognized  as  the 
man  Harry's. 

"Hold  on  till  Peyton  comes  up,"  said  the  second  voice, 
in  a  low  tone;  "leave  it  to  him." 

"Better  find  out  what  they  were  like,  at  once,"  grum 
bled  Harry. 

"Wait,  stand  back,"  said  Peyton's  voice,  joining  the 
others ;  "I'll  ask  him." 

Clarence  looked  wonderingly  at  the  door.  It  opened 
on  Mr.  Peyton,  dusty  and  dismounted,  with  a  strange, 
abstracted  look  in  his  face. 

"How  many  wagons  are  in  your  train,  Clarence?" 

"Three,  sir." 

"Any  marks  on  them?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  eagerly :  "  'Off  to  California' 
and  'Root,  Hog,  or  Die.'  " 

Mr.  Peyton's  eye  seemed  to  leap  up  and  hold  Clarence's 


190  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

with  a  sudden,  strange  significance,  and  then  looked 
down. 

"How  many  were  you  in  all?"  he  continued. 

"Five,  and  there  was  Mrs.  Silsbee." 

"No  other  woman?" 

"No." 

"Get  up  and  dress  yourself,"  he  said  gravely,  "and 
wait  here  till  I  come  back.  Keep  cool  and  have  your  wits 
about  you."  He  dropped  his  voice  slightly.  "Perhaps 
something's  happened  that  you'll  have  to  show  yourself  a 
little  man  again  for,  Clarence !" 

The  door  closed,  and  the  boy  heard  the  same  muffled 
hoofs  and  voices  die  away  towards  the  front.  He  began 
to  dress  himself  mechanically,  almost  vacantly,  yet  con 
scious  always  of  a  vague  undercurrent  of  thrilling  excite 
ment.  When  he  had  finished  he  waited  almost  breath 
lessly,  feeling  the  same  beating  of  his  heart  that  he  had 
felt  when  he  was  following  the  vanished  train  the  day 
before.  At  last  he  could  stand  the  suspense  no  longer, 
and  opened  the  door.  Everything  was  still  in  the  motion 
less  caravan,  except — it  struck  him  oddly  even  then — the 
unconcerned  prattling  voice  of  Susy  from  one  of  the 
nearer  wagons.  Perhaps  a  sudden  feeling  that  this  was 
something  that  concerned  her,  perhaps  an  irresistible  im 
pulse  overcame  him,  but  the  next  moment  he  had  leaped 
to  the  ground,  faced  about,  and  was  running  feverishly  to 
the  front. 

The  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  was  the  helpless  and 
desolate  bulk  of  one  of  the  Silsbee  wagons  a  hundred 
rods  away,  bereft  of  oxen  and  pole,  standing  alone  and 
motionless  against  the  dazzling  sky !  Near  it  was  the 
broken  frame  of  another  wagon,  its  fore  wheels  and  axles 
gone,  pitched  forward  on  its  knees  like  an  ox  under  the 
butcher's  sledge.  Not  far  away  there  were  the  burnt  and 
blackened  ruins  of  a  third,  around  which  the  whole  party 
on  foot  and  horseback  seemed  to  be  gathered.  As  the 
boy  ran  violently  on,  the  group  opened  to  make  way  for 
two  men  carrying  some  helpless  but  awful  object  between 
them.  A  terrible  instinct  made  Clarence  swerve  from  it 
in  his  headlong  course,  but  he  was  at  the  same  moment 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  191 

discovered  by  the  others,  and  a  cry  arose  of  "Go  back !" 
"Stop!"  "Keep  him  back!"  Heeding  it  no  more  than 
the  wind  that  whistled  by  him,  Clarence  made  directly 
for  the  foremost  wagon — the  one  in  which  he  and  Susy 
had  played.  A  powerful  hand  caught  his  shoulder ;  it  was 
Mr.  Peyton's. 

"Mrs.  Silsbee's  wagon,"  said  the  boy,  with  white  lips, 
pointing  to  it.  "Where  is  she?" 

"She's  missing,"  said  Peyton,  "and  one  other — the  rest 
are  dead." 

"She  must  be  there,"  said  the  boy,  struggling,  and 
pointing  to  the  wagon ;  "let  me  go." 

"Clarence,"  said  Peyton  sternly,  accenting  his  grasp 
upon  the  boy's  arm,  "be  a  man !  Look  around  you.  Try 
and  tell  us  who  these  are." 

There  seemed  to  be  one  or  two  heaps  of  old  clothes 
lying  on  the  ground,  and  further  on,  where  the  men  at 
a  command  from  Peyton  had  laid  down  their  burden, 
another.  In  those  ragged,  dusty  heaps  of  clothes,  from 
which  all  the  majesty  of  life  seemed  to  have  been  ruth 
lessly  stamped  out,  only  what  was  ignoble  and  grotesque 
appeared  to  be  left.  There  was  nothing  terrible  in  this. 
The  boy  moved  slowly  towards  them ;  and,  incredible  even 
to  himself,  the  overpowering  fear  of  them  that  a  moment 
before  had  overcome  him  left  him  as  suddenly.  He 
walked  from  the  one  to  the  other,  recognizing  them  by 
certain  marks  and  signs,  and  mentioning  name  after 
name.  The  groups  gazed  at  him  curiously ;  he  was  con 
scious  that  he  scarcely  understood  himself,  still  less  the 
same  quiet  purpose  that  made  him  turn  towards  the 
furthest  wagon. 

"There's  nothing  there,"  said  Peyton;  "we've  searched 
it."  But  the  boy,  without  replying,  continued  his  way, 
and  the  crowd  followed  him. 

The  deserted  wagon,  more  rude,  disorderly,  and  slovenly 
than  it  had  ever  seemed  to  him  before,  was  now  heaped 
and  tumbled  with  broken  bones,  cans,  scattered  provisions, 
pots,  pans,  blankets,  and  clothing  in  the  foul  confusion  of 
a  dust-heap.  But  in  this  heterogeneous  mingling  the  boy's 
quick  eye  caught  sight  of  a  draggled  edge  of  calico. 


192  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

"That's  Mrs.  Silsbee's  dress !"  he  cried,  and  leapt  into 
the  wagon. 

At  first  the  men  stared  at  each  other,  but  an  instant 
later  a  dozen  hands  were  helping  him,  nervously  digging 
and  clearing  away  the  rubbish.  Then  one  man  uttered 
a  sudden  cry,  and  fell  back  with  frantic  but  furious  eyes 
uplifted  against  the  pitiless,  smiling  sky  above  him. 

"Great  God!  look  here!" 

It  was  the  yellowish,  waxen  face  of  Mrs.  Silsbee  that 
had  been  uncovered.  But  to  the  fancy  of  the  boy  it  had 
changed;  the  old  familiar  lines  of  worry,  care,  and  queru- 
lousness  had  given  way  to  a  look  of  remote  peace  and 
statue-like  repose.  He  had  often  vexed  her  in  her  aggres 
sive  life;  he  was  touched  with  remorse  at  her  cold,  pas- 
'  sionless  apathy  now,  and  pressed  timidly  forward.  Even 
as  he  did  so,  the  man,  with  a  quick  but  warning  gesture, 
hurriedly  threw  his  handkerchief  over  the  matted  locks, 
as  if  to  shut  out  something  awful  from  his  view.  Clar 
ence  felt  himself  drawn  back;  but  not  before  the  white 
lips  of  a  bystander  had  whispered  a  single  word — 

"Scalped,  too !  by  God !" 


CHAPTER   VI 

THEN  followed  days  and  weeks  that  seemed  to  Clar 
ence  as  a  dream.  At  first,  an  interval  of  hushed  and 
awed  restraint  when  he  and  Susy  were  kept  apart,  a 
strange  and  artificial  interest  taken  little  note  of  by  him, 
but  afterwards  remembered  when  others  had  forgotten 
it;  the  burial  of  Mrs.  Silsbee  beneath  a  cairn  of  stones, 
with  some  ceremonies  that,  simple  though  they  were, 
seemed  to  usurp  the  sacred  rights  of  grief  from  him 
and  Susy,  and  leave  them  cold  and  frightened;  days 
of  frequent  and  incoherent  childish  outbursts  from  Susy, 
growing  fainter  and  rarer  as  time  went  on,  until  they 
ceased,  he  knew  not  when ;  the  haunting  by  night  of  that 
morning  vision  of  the  three  or  four  heaps  of  ragged 
clothes  on  the  ground  and  a  half  regret  that  he  had 
not  examined  them  more  closely;  a  recollection  of  the 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  193 

awful  loneliness  and  desolation  of  the  broken  and  aban 
doned  wagon  left  behind  on  its  knees  as  if  praying 
mutely  when  the  train  went  on  and  left  it;  the  trundling 
behind  of  the  fateful  wagon  in  which  Mrs.  Silsbee  s 
body  had  been  found,  superstitiously  shunned  by  every 
one,  and  when  at  last  turned  over  to  the  authorities  at 
an  outpost  garrison,  seeming  to  drop  the  last  link  from 
the  dragging  chain  of  the  past.  The  revelation .  to  the 
children  of  a  new  experience  in  that  brief  glimpse  of  the 
frontier  garrison ;  the  handsome  officer  in  uniform  and 
belted  sword,  an  heroic,  vengeful  figure  to  be  admired 
and  imitated  hereafter;  the  sudden  importance  and 
respect  given  to  Susy  and  himself  as  "survivors";  the 
sympathetic  questioning  and  kindly  exaggerations  of 
their  experiences,  quickly  accepted  by  Susy — all  these, 
looking  back  upon  them  afterwards,  seemed  to  have 
passed  in  a  dream. 

No  less  strange  and  visionary  to  them  seemed  the  real 
transitions  they  noted  from  the  moving  train.  How  one 
morning  they  missed  the  changeless,  motionless,  low, 
dark  line  along  the  horizon,  and  before  noon  found 
themselves  among  the  rocks  and  trees  and  a  swiftly 
rushing  river.  How  there  suddenly  appeared  beside  them 
a  few  days  later  a  great  gray  cloud-covered  ridge  of 
mountains  that  they  were  convinced  was  that  same  dark 
line  that  they  had  seen  so  often.  How  the  men  laughed 
at  them,  and  said  that  for  the  last  three  days  they  had 
been  crossing  that  dark  line,  and  that  it  was  higher  than 
the  great  gray-clouded  range  before  them,  which  it  had 
always  hidden  from  their  view !  How  Susy  firmly  be 
lieved  that  these  changes  took  place  in  her  sleep,  when 
she  always  "kinder  felt  they  were  crawlin'  up,"  and  how 
Clarence,  in  the  happy  depreciation  of  extreme  youth, 
expressed  his  conviction  that  they  "weren't  a  bit  high, 
after  all."  How  the  weather  became  cold,  though  it  was 
already  summer,  and  at  night  the  camp  fire  was  a  neces 
sity,  and  there  was  a  stove  in  the  tent  with  Susy;  and 
yet  how  all  this  faded  away,  and  they  were  again  upon  a 
dazzling,  burnt,  and  sun-dried  plain!  But  always  as  in 
a  dream! 

7  v.  2 


194  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

More  real  were  the  persons  who  composed  the  party — 
whom  they  seemed  to  have  always  known — and  who, 
in  the  innocent  caprice  of  children,  had  become  to  them 
more  actual  than  the  dead  had  even  been.  There  was 
Mr.  Peyton,  who  they  now  knew  owned  the  train,  and 
who  was  so  rich  that  he  "needn't  go  to  California  if  he 
didn't  want  to,  and  was  going  to  buy  a  great  deal  of  it 
if  he  liked  it,"  and  who  was  also  a  lawyer  and  "police 
man" — which  was  Susy's  rendering  of  "politician" — 
and  was  called  "Squire"  and  "Judge"  at  the  frontier 
outpost,  and  could  order  anybody  to  be  "took  up  if  he 
wanted  to,"  and  who  knew  everybody  by  their  Christian 
names;  and  Mrs.  Peyton,  who  had  been  delicate  and  was 
ordered  by  the  doctor  to  live  in  the  open  air  for  six 
months,  and  "never  go  into  a  house  or  a  town  agin," 
and  who  was  going  to  adopt  Susy  as  soon  as  her  hus 
band  could  arrange  with  Susy's  relatives,  and  draw  up 
the  papers !  How  "Harry"  was  Henry  Benham,  Mrs. 
Peyton's  brother,  and  a  kind  of  partner  of  Mr.  Peyton. 
And  how  the  scout's  name  was  Gus  Gildersleeve,  or 
the  "White  Crow,"  and  how,  through  his  recognized 
intrepidity,  an  attack  upon  their  train  was  no  doubt 
averted.  Then  there  was  "Bill,"  the  stock  herder,  and 
"Texas  Jim,"  the  vaquero — the  latter  marvelous  and 
unprecedented  in  horsemanship.  Such  were  their  com 
panions,  as  appeared  through  the  gossip  of  the  train 
and  their  own  inexperienced  consciousness.  To  them, 
they  were  all  astounding  and  important  personages. 
But,  either  from  boyish  curiosity  or  some  sense  of  being 
misunderstood,  Clarence  was  more  attracted  by  the  two 
individuals  of  the  party  who  were  least  kind  to  him — 
namely,  Mrs.  Peyton  and  her  brother  Harry.  I  fear  that, 
after  the  fashion  of  most  children,  and  some  grown-up 
people,  he  thought  less  of  the  steady  kindness  of  Mr. 
Peyton  and  the  others  than  of  the  rare  tolerance  of 
Harry  or  the  polite  concessions  of  his  sister.  Miserably 
conscious  of  this  at  times,  he  quite  convinced  himself 
that  if  he  could  only  win  a  word  of  approbation  from 
Harry,  or  a  smile  from  Mrs.  Peyton,  he  would  after 
wards  revenge  himself  by  "running  away."  Whether 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  195 

he  would  or  not,  I  cannot  say.  I  am  writing  of  a  fool 
ish,  growing,  impressionable  boy  of  eleven,  of  whose 
sentiments  nothing  could  be  safely  predicted  but  uncer 
tainty.  • 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  became  fascinated  by 
another  member  of  the  party  whose  position  had  been 
too  humble  and  unimportant  to  be  included  in  the  group 
already  noted.  Of  the  same  appearance  as  the  other 
teamsters  in  size,  habits,  and  apparel,  he  had  not  at  first 
exhibited  to  Clarence  any  claim  to  sympathy.  But  it 
appeared  that  he  was  actually  a  youth  of  only  sixteen — 
a  hopeless  incorrigible  of  St.  Joseph,  whose  parents  had 
prevailed  on  Peyton  to  allow  him  to  join  the  party,  by 
way  of  removing  him  from  evil  associations  and  as  a 
method  of  reform.  Of  this  Clarence  was  at  first  igno 
rant,  not  from  any  want  of  frankness  on  the  part  of 
the  youth,  for  that  ingenious  young  gentleman  later 
informed  him  that  he  had  killed  three  men  in  St.  Louis, 
two  in  St.  Jo,  and  that  the  officers  of  justice  were  after 
him.  But  it  was  evident  that  to  precocious  habits  of 
drinking,  smoking,  chewing,  and  card-playing  this  over 
grown  youth  added  a  strong  tendency  to  exaggeration 
of  statement.  Indeed,  he  was  known  as  "Lying  Jim 
Hooker,"  and  his  various  qualities  presented  a  problem 
to  Clarence  that  was  attractive  and  inspiring,  doubtful, 
but  always  fascinating.  With  the  hoarse  voice  of  early 
wickedness  and  a  contempt  for  ordinary  courtesy,  he  had 
a  round,  perfectly  good-humored  face,  and  a  disposition 
that  when  not  called  upon  to  act  up  to  his  self-imposed 
role  of  reckless  wickedness,  was  not  unkindly. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  after  the  massacre,  and  while 
the  children  were  still  wrapped  in  the  gloomy  interest 
and  frightened  reticence  which  followed  it,  that  "Jim 
Hooker"  first  characteristically  flashed  upon  Clarence's 
perceptions.  Hanging  half  on  and  half  off  the  saddle 
of  an  Indian  pony,  the  lank  Jim  suddenly  made  his 
appearance,  dashing  violently  up  and  down  the  track,  and 
around  the  wagon  in  which  Clarence  was  sitting,  tug 
ging  desperately  at  the  reins,  with  every  indication  of 
being  furiously  run  away  with,  and  retaining  his  seat 


196  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

only  with  the  most  dauntless  courage  and  skill.  Round 
and  round  they  went,  the  helpless  rider  at  times  hanging 
by  a  single  stirrup  near  the  ground,  and  again  recovering 
himself  by — as  it  seemed  to  Clarence — almost  super 
human  effort.  Clarence  sat  open-mouthed  with  anxiety 
and  excitement,  and  yet  a  few  of  the  other  teamsters 
laughed.  Then  the  voice  of  Mr.  Peyton,  from  the  win 
dow  of  his  car,  said  quietly, — 

"There,  that  will  do,  Jim.     Quit  it !" 

The  furious  horse  and  rider  instantly  disappeared.  A 
few  moments  after,  the  bewildered  Clarence  saw  the 
redoubted  horseman  trotting  along  quietly  in  the  dust  of 
the  rear,  on  the  same  fiery  steed,  who  in  that  prosaic 
light  bore  an  astounding  resemblance  to  an  ordinary 
team  horse.  Later  in  the  day  he  sought  an  explanation 
from  the  rider. 

"You  see,"  answered  Jim  gloomily,  "thar  ain't  a 
galoot  in  this  yer  crowd  ez  knows  jist  what's  in  that 
hoss !  And  them  ez  suspecks  daren't  say !  It  wouldn't 
do  for  to  hev  it  let  out  that  the  Judge  hez  a  Morgan- 
Mexican  plug  that's  killed  two  men  afore  he  got  him, 
and  is  bound  to  kill  another  afore  he  gets  through ! 
Why,  on'y  the  week  afore  we  kem  up  to  you,  that  thar 
hoss  bolted  with  me  at  camping !  Bucked  and  throwed 
me,  but  I  kept  my  holt  o'  the  stirrups  with  my  foot — 
so !  Dragged  me  a  matter  of  two  miles,  head  down,  and 
me  keepin'  away  rocks  with  my  hand — so !" 

"Why  didn't  you  loose  your  foot  and  let  go?"  asked 
Clarence  breathlessly. 

"You  might,"  said  Jim,  with  deep  scorn;  "that  ain't 
my  style.  I  just  laid  low  till  we  kem  to  a  steep  pitched 
hill,  and  goin'  down  when  the  hoss  was,  so  to  speak, 
kinder  below  me,  I  just  turned  a  hand  spring,  so, 
and  that  landed  me  onter  his  back  again." 

This  action,  though  vividly  illustrated  by  Jim's  throw 
ing  his  hands  down  like  feet  beneath  him,  and  indicating 
the  parabola  of  a  spring  in  the  air,  proving  altogether 
too  much  for  Clarence's  mind  to  grasp,  he  timidly  turned 
to  a  less  difficult  detail. 

"What  made  the  horse  bolt  first,  Mr.  Hooker?" 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  197 

"Smelt  Injins !"  said  Jim,  carelessly  expectorating 
tobacco  juice  in  a  curving  jet  from  the  side  of  his 
mouth — a  singularly  fascinating  accomplishment,  pecu 
liarly  his  own,  "  'n'  likely  your  Injins." 

"But,"  argued  Clarence  hesitatingly,  "you  said  it  was 
a  week  before — and — " 

"Er  Mexican  plug  kin  smell  Injins  fifty,  yes,  a  hun 
dred  miles  away,"  said  Jim,  with  scornful  deliberation ; 
"  'n'  if  Judge  Peyton  had  took  my  advice,  and  hadn't  been 
so  mighty  feared  about  the  character  of  his  hoss  gettin' 
out  he'd  hev  played  roots  on  them  Injins  afore  they 
tetched  ye.  But,"  he  added,  with  gloomy  dejection, 
"there  ain't  no  sand  in  this  yer  crowd,  thar  ain't  no  vim, 
thar  ain't  nothin' ;  and  thar  kan't  be  ez  long  ez  thar's 
women  and  babies,  and  women  and  baby  fixin's,  mixed 
up  with  it.  I'd  hev  cut  the  whole  blamed  gang  ef  it 
weren't  for  one  or  two  things,"  he  added  darkly. 

Clarence,  impressed  by  Jim's  mysterious  manner,  for 
the  moment  forgot  his  contemptuous  allusion  to  Mr. 
Peyton,  and  the  evident  implication  of  Susy  and  himself, 
and  asked  hurriedly,  "What  things?" 

Jim,  as  if  forgetful  of  the  boy's  presence  in  his  fitful 
mood,  abstractedly  half  drew  a  glittering  bowie  knife 
from  his  bootleg,  and  then  slowly  put  it  back  again. 
"Thar's  one  or  two  old  scores,"  he  continued,  in  a  low 
voice,  although  no  one  was  in  hearing  distance  of  them, 
"one  or  two  private  accounts,"  he  went  on  tragically, 
averting  his  eyes  as  if  watched  by  some  one,  "thet  hev 
to  be  wiped  out  with  blood  afore  7  leave.  Thar's  one  or 
two  men  too  many  alive  and  breathin'  in  this  yer  crowd. 
Mebbee  it's  Gus  Gildersleeve ;  mebbee  it's  Harry  Ben- 
ham  ;  mebbee,"  he  added,  with  a  dark  yet  noble  disin 
terestedness,  "it's  me." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Clarence,  with  polite  deprecation. 

Far  from  placating  the  gloomy  Jim,  this  seemed  only 
to  awake  his  suspicions.  "Mebbee,"  he  said,  dancing 
suddenly  away  from  Clarence,  "mebbee  you  think  I'm 
lyin'.  Mebbee  you  think,  because  you're  Colonel  Brant's 
son,  yer  kin  run  me  with  this  yer  train.  Mebbee,"  he 
continued,  dancing  violently  back  again,  "ye  kalkilate, 


198  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

because  ye  run  off'n'  stampeded  a  baby,  ye  kin  tote  me 
round  too,  sonny.  Mebbee,"  he  went  on,  executing  a 
double  shuffle  in  the  dust  and  alternately  striking  his 
hands  on  the  sides  of  his  boots,  "mebbee  you're  spyin' 
round  and  reportin'  to  the  Judge." 

Firmly  convinced  that  Jim  was  working  himself  up 
by  an  Indian  war-dance  to  some  desperate  assault  on 
himself,  but  resenting  the  last  unjust  accusation,  Clar 
ence  had  recourse  to  one  of  his  old  dogged  silences. 
Happily  at  this  moment  an  authoritative  voice  called 
out,  "Now,  then,  you  Jim  Hooker !"  and  the  desperate 
Hooker,  as  usual,  vanished  instantly.  Nevertheless,  he 
appeared  an  hour  or  two  later  beside  the  wagon  in 
which  Susy  and  Clarence  were  seated,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  satiated  vengeance  and  remorseful  bloodguilti- 
ness  in  his  face,  and  his  hair  combed  Indian  fashion 
over  his  eyes.  As  he  generously  contented  himself  with 
only  passing  a  gloomy  and  disparaging  criticism  on  the 
game  of  cards  that  the  children  were  playing,  it  struck 
Clarence  for  the  first  time  that  a  great  deal  of  his  real 
wickedness  resided  in  his  hair.  This  set  him  to  thinking 
that  it  was  strange  that  Mr.  Peyton  did  not  try  to  reform 
him  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  but  not  until  Clarence  him 
self  had  for  at  least  four  days  attempted  to  imitate  Jim 
by  combing  his  own  hair  in  that  fashion. 

A  few  days  later,  Jim  again  casually  favored  him 
with  a  confidential  interview.  Clarence  had  been  allowed 
to  bestride  one  of  the  team  leaders  postillionwise,  and 
was  correspondingly  elevated,  when  Jim  joined  him,  on 
the  Mexican  plug,  which  appeared — no  doubt  a  part 
of  its  wicked  art — heavily  docile,  and  even  slightly 
lame. 

"How  much,"  said  Jim,  in  a  tone  of  gloomy  confi 
dence, — "how  much  did  you  reckon  to  make  by  stealin' 
that  gal-baby,  sonny?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Clarence  with  a  smile.  Perhaps 
it  was  an  evidence  of  the  marked  influence  that  Jim  was 
beginning  to  exert  over  him  that  he  already  did  not 
attempt  to  resent  this  fascinating  implication  of  grown 
up  guilt. 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  199 

"It  orter  bin  a  good  job,  if  it  warn't  revenge,"  contin 
ued  Jim  moodily. 

"No,  it  wasn't  revenge,"  said  Clarence  hurriedly. 

"Then  ye  kalkilated  ter  get  er  hundred  dollars  reward 
ef  the  old  man  and  old  woman  hadn't  bin  scelped  afore 
yet  got  up  to  'em?"  said  Jim.  "That's  your  blamed  dod- 
gasted  luck,  eh !  Enyhow,  you'll  make  Mrs.  Peyton  plank 
down  suthin'  if  she  adopts  the  babby.  Look  yer, 
young  feller,"  he  said,  starting  suddenly  and  throwing 
his  face  forward,  glaring  fiendishly  through  his  .matted 
side-locks,  "d'ye  mean  ter  tell  me  it  wasn't  a  plant — a 
skin  game — the  hull  thing?" 

"A  what?"  said  Clarence. 

"D'ye  mean  to  say" — it  was  wonderful  how  gratui 
tously  husky  his  voice  became  at  this  moment — "d'ye 
mean  ter  tell  me  ye  didn't  set  on  them  Injins  to  wipe 
out  the  Silsbees,  so  that  ye  could  hev  an  out-an'-out 
gal  orfcn  on  hand  fer  Mrs.  Peyton  ter  adopt — eh?" 

But  here  Clarence  was  forced  to  protest,  and  strongly, 
although  Jim  contemptuously  ignored  it.  "Don't  lie  ter 
me,"  he  repeated  mysteriously,  "I'm  fly.  I'm  dark,  young 
fel.  We're  cahoots  in  this  thing?"  And  with  this  artful 
suggestion  of  being  in  possession  of  Clarence's  guilty 
secret  he  departed  in  time  to  elude  the  usual  objurga 
tion  of  his  superior,  "Phil,"  the  head  teamster. 

Nor  was  his  baleful  fascination  exercised  entirely  on 
Clarence.  In  spite  of  Mrs.  Peyton's  jealously  affection 
ate  care,  Clarence's  frequent  companionship,  and  the  little 
circle  of  admiring  courtiers  that  always  surrounded  Susy, 
it  became  evident  that  this  small  Eve  had  been  secretly 
approached  and  tempted  by  the  Satanic  Jim.  She  was 
found  one  day  to  have  a  few  heron's  feathers  in  her 
possession  with  which  she  adorned  her  curls,  and  at 
another  time  was  discovered  to  have  rubbed  her  face 
and  arms  with  yellow  and  red  ochre,  confessedly  the 
free  gift  of  Jim  Hooker.  It  was  to  Clarence  alone  that 
she  admitted  the  significance  and  purport  of  these  offer 
ings.  "Jim  gived  'em  to  me,"  she  said,  "and  Jim's  a  kind 
of  Injin  hisself  that  won't  hurt  me;  and  when  bad  Injins 
come,  they'll  think  I'm  his  Injin  baby  and  run  away. 


200  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

And  Jim  said  if  I'd  just  told  the  In j ins  when  they  came 
to  kill  papa  and  mamma,  that  I  b'longed  to  him,  they'd 
hev  runned  away." 

"But,"  said  the  practical  Clarence,  "you  could  not; 
you  know  you  were  with  Mrs.  Peyton  all  the  time." 

"KJa'uns,"  said  Susy,  shaking  her  head  and  fixing  her 
round  blue  eyes  with  calm  mendacity  on  the  boy,  "don't 
you  tell  me.  /  was  there!" 

Clarence  started  back,  and  nearly  fell  over  the  wagon 
in  hopeless  dismay  at  this  dreadful  revelation  of  Susy's 
powers  of  exaggeration.  "But,"  he  gasped,  "you  know, 
Susy,  you  and  me  left  before — " 

"Kla'uns,"  said  Susy  calmly,  making  a  little  pleat  in 
the  skirt  of  her  dress  with  her  small  thumb  and  fingers, 
"don't  you  talk  to  me.  I  was  there.  I'se  a  scrivcrl 
The  men  at  the  fort  said  so !  The  serivcrs  is  allus,  allus 
there,  and  allus  allus  knows  everythin'." 

Clarence  was  too  dumfounded  to  reply.  He  had  a 
vague  recollection  of  having  noticed  before  that  Susy 
was  very  much  fascinated  by  the  reputation  given  to  her 
at  Fort  Ridge  as  a  "survivor,"  and  was  trying  in  an 
infantile  way  to  live  up  to  it.  This  the  wicked  Jim  had 
evidently  encouraged.  For  a  day  or  two  Clarence  felt 
a  little  afraid  of  her,  and  more  lonely  than  ever. 

It  was  in  this  state,  and  while  he  was  doggedly  con 
scious  that  his  association  with  Jim  did  not  prepossess 
Mrs.  Peyton  or  her  brother  in  his  favor,  and  that  the 
former  even  believed  him  responsible  for  Susy's  unhal 
lowed  acquaintance  with  Jim,  that  he  drifted  into  one 
of  those  youthful  escapades  on  which  elders  are  apt  to 
sit  in  severe  but  not  always  considerate  judgment. 
Believing,  like  many  other  children,  that  nobody  cared 
particularly  for  him,  except  to  restrain  him,  discovering, 
as  children  do,  much  sooner  than  we  complacently 
imagine,  that  love  and  preference  have  no  logical  con 
nection  with  desert  or  character,  Clarence  became  boy 
ishly  reckless.  But  when,  one  day,  it  was  rumored  that 
a  herd  of  buffalo  was  in  the  vicinity,  and  that  the  train 
would  be  delayed  the  next  morning  in  order  that  a  hunt 
might  be  organized,  by  Gildersleeve,  Benham,  and  a  few 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  201 

others,  Clarence  listened  willingly  to  Jim's  proposition 
that  they  should  secretly  follow  it. 

To  effect  their  unhallowed  purpose  required  boldness 
and  duplicity.  It  was  arranged  that  shortly  after  the 
departure  of  the  hunting  party  Clarence  should  ask  per 
mission  to  mount  and  exercise  one  of  the  team  horses — 
a  favor  that  had  been  frequently  granted  him;  that  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  camp  he  should  pretend  that  the 
horse  ran  away  with  him,  and  Jim  would  start  in  pur 
suit.  The  absence  of  the  shooting  party  with  so  large 
a  contingent  of  horses  and  men  would  preclude  any  fur 
ther  detachment  from  the  camp  to  assist  them.  Once 
clear,  they  would  follow  the  track  of  the  hunters,  and, 
if  discovered  by  them,  would  offer  the  same  excuse,  with 
the  addition  that  they  had  lost  their  way  to  the  camp. 
The  plan  was  successful.  The  details  were  carried  out 
with  almost  too  perfect  effect;  as  it  appeared  that  Jim, 
in  order  to  give  dramatic  intensity  to  the  fractiousness 
of  Clarence's  horse,  had  inserted  a  thorn  apple  under 
the  neck  of  his  saddle,  which  Clarence  only  discovered 
in  time  to  prevent  himself  from  being  unseated.  Urged 
forward  by  ostentatious  "Whoas !"  and  surreptitious  cuts 
in  the  rear  from  Jim,  pursuer  and  pursued  presently 
found  themselves  safely  beyond  the  half-dry  stream  and 
fringe  of  alder  bushes  that  skirted  the  camp.  They 
were  not  followed.  Whether  the  teamsters  suspected 
and  winked  at  this  design,  or  believed  that  the  boys 
could  take  care  of  themselves,  and  ran  no  risk  of  being 
lost  in  the  proximity  of  the  hunting  party,  there  was  no 
general  alarm. 

Thus  reassured,  and  having  a  general  idea  of  the 
direction  of  the  hunt,  the  boys  pushed  hilariously  for 
ward.  Before  them  opened  a  vast  expanse  of  bottom 
land,  slightly  sloping  on  the  right  to  a  distant  half-filled 
lagoon,  formed  by  the  main  river  overflow,  on  whose 
tributary  they  had  encamped.  The  lagoon  was  partly 
hidden  by  straggling  timber  and  "brush,"  and  beyond 
that  again  stretched  the  unlimitable  plains — the  pasture 
of  their  mighty  game.  Hither,  Jim  hoarsely  informed 
his  companion,  the  buffaloes  came  to  water.  A  few 


202  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

rods  further  on,  he  started  dramatically,  and,  alighting, 
proceeded  to  slowly  examine  the  ground.  It  seemed  to 
be  scattered  over  with  half-circular  patches,  which  he 
pointed  out  mysteriously  as  "buffalo  chip."  To  Clar 
ence's  inexperienced  perception  the  plain  bore  a  singu 
lar  resemblance  to  the  surface  of  an  ordinary  unroman- 
tic  cattle  pasture  that  somewhat  chilled  his  heroic 
fancy.  However,  the  two  companions  halted  and  pro 
fessionally  examined  their  arms  and  equipments. 

These,  I  grieve  to  say,  though  varied,  were  scarcely 
full  or  satisfactory.  The  necessities  of  their  flight  had 
restricted  Jim  to  an  old  double-barreled  fowling-piece, 
which  he  usually  carried  slung  across  his  shoulders;  an 
old-fashioned  "six-shooter,"  whose  barrels  revolved  occa 
sionally  and  unexpectedly,  known  as  "Allen's  Pepper 
Box"  on  account  of  its  culinary  resemblance;  and  a 
bowie-knife.  Clarence  carried  an  Indian  bow  and  arrow 
with  which  he  had  been  exercising,  and  a  hatchet  which 
he  had  concealed  under  the  flanks  of  his  saddle.  To 
this  Jim  generously  added  the  six-shooter,  taking  the 
hatchet  in  exchange — a  transfer  that  at  first  delighted 
Clarence,  until,  seeing  the  warlike  and  picturesque  effect 
of  the  hatchet  in  Jim's  belt,  he  regretted  the  transfer. 
The  gun,  Jim  meantime  explained,  "extry  charged," 
"chuck  up"  to  the  middle  with  slugs  and  revolver  bul 
lets,  could  only  be  fired  by  himself,  and  even  then,  he 
darkly  added,  not  without  danger.  This  poverty  of 
equipment  was,  however,  compensated  by  opposite  state 
ments  from  Jim  of  the  extraordinary  results  obtained 
by  these  simple  weapons  from  "fellers  I  knew:"  how  he 
himself  had  once  brought  down  a  "bull"  by  a  bold  shot 
with  a  revolver  through  its  open  bellowing  mouth  that 
pierced  his  "innards ;"  how  a  friend  of  his — an  intimate 
in  fact — now  in  jail  at  Louisville  for  killing  a  sheriff's 
deputy,  had  once  found  himself  alone  and  dismounted 
with  a  simple  clasp-knife  and  a  lariat  among  a  herd  of 
buffaloes ;  how,  leaping  calmly  upon  the  shaggy  shoulders 
of  the  biggest  bull,  he  lashed  himself  with  the  lariat 
firmly  to  its  horns,  goading  it  onward  with  his  clasp- 
knife,  and  subsisting  for  days  upon  the  flesh  cut  from 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  208 

its  living  body,  until,  abandoned  by  its  fellows  and 
exhausted  by  the  loss  of  blood,  it  finally  succumbed  to 
its  victor  at  the  very  outskirts  of  the  camp  to  which  he 
had  artfully  driven  it !  It  must  be  confessed  that  this 
recital  somewhat  took  away  Clarence's  breath,  and  he 
would  have  liked  to  ask  a  few  questions.  But  they  were 
alone  on  the  prairie,  and  linked  by  a  common  trans 
gression;  the  glorious  sun  was  coming  up  victoriously, 
the  pure,  crisp  air  was  intoxicating  their  nerves ;  in  the 
bright  forecast  of  youth  everything  was  possible ! 

The  surface  of  the  bottom  land  that  they  were  crossing 
was  here  and  there  broken  up  by  fissures  and  "pot 
holes,"  and  some  circumspection  in  their  progress  be 
came  necessary.  In  one  of  these  halts,  Clarence  was 
struck  by  a  dull,  monotonous  jarring  that  sounded  like 
the  heavy  regular  fall  of  water  over  a  dam.  Each  time 
that  they  slackened  their  pace  the  sound  would  become 
more  audible,  and  was  at  last  accompanied  by  that 
slight  but  unmistakable  tremor  of  the  earth  that  betrayed 
the  vicinity  of  a  waterfall.  Hesitating  over  the  phenom 
enon,  which  seemed  to  imply  that  their  topography 
was  wrong  and  that  they  had  blundered  from  the  track, 
they  were  presently  startled  by  the  fact  that  the  sound 
was  actually  approaching  them !  With  a  sudden  instinct 
they  both  galloped  towards  the  lagoon.  As  the  timber 
opened  before  them  Jim  uttered  a  long  ecstatic  shout. 
"Why,  it's  them!" 

At  a  first  glance  it  seemed  to  Clarence  as  if  the  whole 
plain  beyond  was  broken  up  and  rolling  in  tumbling 
waves  or  furrows  towards  them.  A  second  glance 
showed  the  tossing  fronts  of  a  vast  herd  of  buffaloes, 
and  here  and  there,  darting  in  and  out  and  among  them, 
or  emerging  from  the  cloud  of  dust  behind,  wild  figures 
and  flashes  of  fire.  With  the  idea  of  water  still  in  his 
mind,  it  seemed  as  if  some  tumultuous  tidal  wave  were 
sweeping  unseen  towards  the  lagoon,  carrying  everything 
before  it.  He  turned  with  eager  eyes,  in  speechless 
expectancy,  to  his  companion. 

Alack !  that  redoubtable  hero  and  mighty  hunter  was, 
to  all  appearances,  equally  speechless  and  astonished.  It 


204  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

was  true  that  he  remained  rooted  to  the  saddle,  a  lank, 
still  heroic  figure,  alternately  grasping  his  hatchet  and 
gun  with  a  kind  of  spasmodic  regularity.  How  long  he 
would  have  continued  this  would  never  be  known,  for 
the  next  moment,  with  a  deafening  crash,  the  herd  broke 
through  the  brush,  and,  swerving  at  the  right  of  the 
lagoon,  bore  down  directly  upon  them.  All  further 
doubt  or  hesitation  on  their  part  was  stopped.  The  far- 
seeing,  sagacious  Mexican  plug  with  a  terrific  snort 
wheeled  and  fled  furiously  with  his  rider.  Moved,  no 
doubt,  by  touching  fidelity,  Clarence's  humbler  team- 
horse  instantly  followed.  In  a  few  moments  those 
devoted  animals  struggled  neck  to  neck  in  noble  emula 
tion. 

"What  are  we  goin'  off  this  way  for?"  gasped  the 
simple  Clarence. 

"Peyton  and  Gildersleeve  are  back  there — and  they'll 
see  us,"  gasped  Jim  in  reply.  It  struck  Clarence  that 
the  buffaloes  were  much  nearer  them  than  the  hunting 
party,  and  that  the  trampling  hoofs  of  a  dozen  bulls 
were  close  behind  them,  but  with  another  gasp  he 
shouted, 

"When  are  we  going  to  hunt  'em?" 

"Hunt  them!"  screamed  Jim,  with  a  hysterical  out 
burst  of  truth ;  "why,  they're  huntin'  us — dash  it !" 

Indeed,  there  was  no  doubt  that  their  frenzied  horses 
were  flying  before  the  equally  frenzied  herd  behind  them. 
They  gained  a  momentary  advantage  by  riding  into  one 
of  the  fissures,  and  out  again  on  the  other  side,  while 
their  pursuers  were  obliged  to  make  a  detour.  But  in  a 
few  minutes  they  were  overtaken  by  that  part  of  the  herd 
who  had  taken  the  other  and  nearer  side  of  the  lagoon, 
and  were  now  fairly  in  the  midst  of  them.  The  ground 
shook  with  their  trampling  hoofs;  their  steaming  breath, 
mingling  with  the  stinging  dust  that  filled  the  air,  half 
choked  and  blinded  Clarence.  He  was  dimly  conscious 
that  Jim  had  wildly  thrown  his  hatchet  at  a  cow- 
buffalo  pressing  close  upon  his  flanks.  As  they  swept 
down  into  another  gully  he  saw  him  raise  his  fateful 
gun  with  utter  desperation.  Clarence  crouched  low  on 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  205 

his  horse's  outstretched  neck.  There  was  a  blinding 
flash,  a  single  stunning  report  of  both  barrels;  Jim 
reeled  in  one  way  half  out  of  the  saddle,  while  the 
smoking  gun  seemed  to  leap  in  another  over  his  head, 
and  then  rider  and  horse  vanished  in  a  choking  cloud 
of  dust  and  gunpowder.  A  moment  after  Clarence's 
horse  stopped  with  a  sudden  check,  and  the  boy  felt 
himself  hurled  over  its  head  into  the  gully,  alighting  on 
something  that  seemed  to  be  a  bounding  cushion  of 
curled  and  twisted  hair.  It  was  the  shaggy  shoulder 
of  an  enormous  buffalo !  For  Jim's  desperate  random 
shot  and  double  charge  had  taken  effect  on  the  near 
hind  leg  of  a  preceding  bull,  tearing  away  the  flesh  and 
ham-stringing  the  animal,  who  had  dropped  in  the  gully 
just  in  front  of  Clarence's  horse. 

Dazed  but  unhurt,  the  boy  rolled  from  the  lifted  fore 
quarters  of  the  struggling  brute  to  the  ground.  When 
he  staggered  to  his  feet  again,  not  only  his  horse  was 
gone  but  the  whole  herd  of  buffaloes  seemed  to  have 
passed  too,  and  he  could  hear  the  shouts  of  unseen 
hunters  now  ahead  of  him.  They  had  evidently  over 
looked  his  fall,  and  the  gully  had  concealed  him.  The 
sides  before  him  were  too  steep  for  his  aching  limbs 
to  climb;  the  slope  by  which  he  and  the  bull  had 
descended  when  the  collision  occurred  was  behind  the 
wounded  animal.  Clarence  was  staggering  towards  it 
when  the  bull,  by  a  supreme  effort,  lifted  itself  on  three 
legs,  half  turned,  and  faced  him. 

These  events  had  passed  too  quickly  for  the  inexperi 
enced  boy  to  have  felt  any  active  fear,  or  indeed  any 
thing  but  wild  excitement  and  confusion.  But  the  spec 
tacle  of  that  shaggy  and  enormous  front,  that  seemed 
to  fill  the  whole  gully,  rising  with  awful  deliberation 
between  him  and  escape,  sent  a  thrill  of  terror  through 
his  frame.  The  great,  dull,  bloodshot  eyes  glared  at 
him  with  a  dumb,  wondering  fury ;  the  large  wet  nostrils 
were  so  near  that  their  first  snort  of  inarticulate  rage 
made  him  reel  backwards  as  from  a  blow.  The  gully 
was  only  a  narrow  and  short  fissure  or  subsidence  of  the 
plain;  a  few  paces  more  of  retreat  and  he  would  be  at 


206  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

its  end,  against  an  almost  perpendicular  bank  fifteen  feet 
high.  If  he  attempted  to  climb  its  crumbling  sides  and 
fell,  there  would  be  those  short  but  terrible  horns  wait 
ing  to  impale  him !  It  seemed  too  terrible,  too  cruel ! 
He  was  so  small  beside  this  overgrown  monster.  It 
wasn't  fair !  The  tears  started  to  his  eyes,  and  then, 
in  a  rage  at  the  injustice  of  Fate,  he  stood  doggedly 
still  with  clenched  fists.  He  fixed  his  gaze  with  half- 
hysterical,  childish  fury  on  those  lurid  eyes;  he  did  not 
know  that,  owing  to  the  strange  magnifying  power  of 
the  bull's  convex  pupils,  he,  Clarence,  appeared  much 
bigger  than  he  really  was  to  the  brute's  heavy  conscious 
ness,  the  distance  from  him  most  deceptive,  and  that  it 
was  to  this  fact  that  hunters  so  often  owed  their  escape. 
He  only  thought  of  some  desperate  means  of  attack. 
Ah !  the  six-shooter.  It  was  still  in  his  pocket.  He  drew 
it  nervously,  hopelessly — it  looked  so  small  compared 
with  his  large  enemy ! 

He  presented  it  with  flashing  eyes,  and  pulled  the 
trigger.  A  feeble  click  followed,  another,  and  again ! 
Even  this  had  mocked  him.  He  pulled  the  trigger  once 
more,  wildly ;  there  was  a  sudden  explosion,  and  another. 
He  stepped  back ;  the  balls  had  apparently  flattened 
themselves  harmlessly  on  the  bull's  forehead.  He  pulled 
again,  hopelessly;  there  was  another  report,  a  sudden 
furious  bellow,  and  the  enormous  brute  threw  his  head 
savagely  to  one  side,  burying  his  left  horn  deep  in  the 
crumbling  bank  beside  him.  Again  and  again  he  charged 
the  bank,  driving  his  left  horn  home,  and  bringing  down 
the  stones  and  earth  in  showers.  It  was  some  seconds 
before  Clarence  saw  in  a  single  glimpse  of  that  wildly 
tossing  crest  the  reason  of  this  fury.  The  blood  was 
pouring  from  his  left  eye,  penetrated  by  the  last  bullet ; 
the  bull  was  blinded !  A  terrible  revulsion  of  feeling,  a 
sudden  sense  of  remorse  that  was  for  the  moment  more 
awful  than  evtn  his  previous  fear,  overcame  him.  He 
had  done  that  thing!  As  much  to  fly  from  the  dreadful 
spectacle  as  any  instinct  of  self-preservation,  he  took 
advantage  of  the  next  mad  paroxysms  of  pain  and  blind 
ness,  that  always  impelled  the  suffering  beast  towards 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  207 

the  left,  to  slip  past  him  on  the  right,  reach  the  incline, 
incl  scramble  wildly  up  to  the  plain  again.  Here  he  ran 
confusedly  forward,  not  knowing  whither — only  caring 
to  escape  that  agonized  bellowing,  to  shut  out  forever  the 
accusing  look  of  that  huge  blood-weltering  eye. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  distant  angry  shout.  To  his  first 
hurried  glance  the  plain  had  seemed  empty,  but,  looking 
up,  he  saw  two  horsemen  rapidly  advancing  with  a  led 
horse  behind  them — his  own.  With  the  blessed  sense  of 
relief  that  overtook  him  now  came  the  fevered  desire 
for  sympathy  and  to  tell  them  all.  But  as  they  came 
nearer  he  saw  that  they  were  Gildersleeve,  the  scout,  and 
Henry  Benham,  and  that,  far  from  sharing  any  delight 
in  his  deliverance,  their  faces  only  exhibited  irascible 
impatience.  Overcome  by  this  new  defeat,  the  boy 
stopped,  again  dumb  and  dogged. 

"Now,  then,  blank  it  all,  will  you  get  up  and  come 
along,  or  do  you  reckon  to  keep  the  train  waiting  an 
other  hour  over  your  blanked  foolishness?"  said  Gilder- 
sleeve  savagely. 

The  boy  hesitated,  and  then  mounted  mechanically, 
without  a  word. 

"  'Twould  have  served  'em  right  to  have  gone  and 
left  'em,"  muttered  Benham  vindictively. 

For  one  wild  instant  Clarence  thought  of  throwing 
himself  from  his  horse  and  bidding  them  go  on  and 
leave  him.  But  before  he  could  put  his  thought  into 
action  the  two  men  were  galloping  forward,  with  his 
horse  led  by  a  lariat  fastened  to  the  horn  of  Gilder- 
sleeve's  saddle. 

In  two  hours  more  they  had  overtaken  the  train, 
already  on  the  march,  and  were  in  the  midst  of  the 
group  of  outriders.  Judge  Peyton's  face,  albeit  a  trifle 
perplexed,  turned  towards  Clarence  with  a  kindly,  half- 
tolerant  look  of  welcome.  The  boy's  heart  instantly 
melted  with  forgiveness. 

"Well,  my  boy,  let's  hear  your  story.  What  hap 
pened  ?" 

Clarence  cast  a  hurried  glance  around,  and  saw  Jim, 
with  face  averted,  riding  gloomily  behind.  Then 


208  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

nervously  and  hurriedly  he  told  how  he  had  been  thrown 
into  the  gully  on  the  back  of  the  wounded  buffalo,  and 
the  manner  of  his  escape.  An  audible  titter  ran  through 
the  cavalcade.  Mr.  Peyton  regarded  him  gravely.  "But 
how  did  the  buffalo  get  so  conveniently  into  the  gully?" 
he  asked. 

"Jim  Hooker  lamed  him  with  a  shotgun,  and  he  fell 
over,"  said  Clarence  timidly. 

A  roar  of  Homeric  laughter  went  up  from  the  party. 
Clarence  looked  up,  stung  and  startled,  but  caught  a 
single  glimpse  of  Jim  Hooker's  face  that  made  him  forget 
his  own  mortification.  In  its  hopeless,  heart-sick,  and 
utterly  beaten  dejection — the  first  and  only  real  expres 
sion  he  had  seen  on  it — he  read  the  dreadful  truth.  Jim's 
reputation  had  ruined  him !  The  one  genuine  and  strik 
ing  episode  of  his  life,  the  one  trustworthy  account  he 
had  given  of  it,  had  been  unanimously  accepted  as  the 
biggest  and  most  consummate  lie  of  his  record ! 


CHAPTER    VII 

WITH  this  incident  of  the  hunt  closed,  to  Clarence,  the 
last  remembered  episode  of  his  journey.  But  he  did  not 
know  until  long  after  that  it  had  also  closed  to  him  what 
might  have  been  the  opening  of  a  new  career.  For  it  had 
been  Judge  Peyton's  intention  in  adopting  Susy  to  include 
a  certain  guardianship  and  protection  of  the  boy,  pro 
vided  he  could  get  the  consent  of  that  vague  relation  to 
whom  he  was  consigned.  But  it  had  been  pointed  out 
by  Mrs.  Peyton  and  her  brother  that  Clarence's  associa 
tion  with  Jim  Hooker  had  made  him  a  doubtful  companion 
for  Susy,  and  even  the  Judge  himself  was  forced  to  admit 
that  the  boy's  apparent  taste  for  evil  company  was  incon 
sistent  with  his  alleged  birth  and  breeding.  Unfortu 
nately,  Clarence,  in  the  conviction  of  being  hopelessly 
misunderstood,  and  that  dogged  acquiescence  to  fate  which 
was  one  of  his  characteristics,  was  too  proud  to  correct 
the  impression  by  any  of  the  hypocracies  of  childhood. 
He  had  also  a  cloudy  instinct  of  loyalty  to  Jim  in  his 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  209 

disgrace,  without,  however,  experiencing  either  the  sym 
pathy  of  an  equal  or  the  zeal  of  a  partisan,  but  rather 
— if  it  could  be  said  of  a  boy  of  his  years — with  the 
patronage  and  protection  of  a  superior.  So  he  accepted 
without  demur  the  intimation  that  when  the  train  reached 
California  he  would  be  forwarded  from  Stockton  with  an 
outfit  and  a  letter  of  explanation  to  Sacramento,  it  being 
understood  that  in  the  event  of  not  finding  his  relative  he 
would  return  to  the  Peytons  in  one  of  the  southern  val 
leys,  where  they  elected  to  purchase  a  tract  of  land. 

With  this  outlook,  and  the  prospect  of  change,  inde 
pendence,  and  all  the  rich  possibilities  that  to  the  imag 
ination  of  youth  are  included  in  them,  Clarence  had  found 
the  days  dragging.  The  halt  at  Salt  Lake,  the  transit 
of  the  dreary  Alkali  desert,  even  the  wild  passage  of  the 
Sierras,  were  but  a  blurred  picture  in  his  memory.  The 
sight  of  eternal  snows  and  the  rolling  of  endless  ranks 
of  pines,  the  first  glimpse  of  a  hillside  of  wild  oats,  the 
spectacle  of  a  rushing  yellow  river  that  to  his  fancy 
seemed  tinged  with  gold,  were  momentary  excitements, 
quickly  forgotten.  But  when,  one  morning,  halting  at 
the  outskirts  of  a  struggling  settlement,  he  found  the 
entire  party  eagerly  gathered  around  a  passing  stranger, 
who  had  taken  from  his  saddle-bags  a  small  buckskin 
pouch  to  show  them  a  double  handful  of  shining  scales 
of  metal,  Clarence  felt  the  first  feverish  and  overmaster 
ing  thrill  of  the  gold-seekers.  Breathlessly  he  followed 
the  breathless  questions  and  careless  replies.  The  gold 
had  been  dug  out  of  a  placer  only  thirty  miles  away.  It 
might  be  worth,  say,  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars;  it  was 
only  his  share  of  a  week's  work  with  two  partners.  It 
was  not  much ;  "the  country  was  getting  played  out  with 
fresh  arrivals  and  greenhorns."  All  this  falling  carelessly 
from  the  unshaven  lips  of  a  dusty,  roughly  dressed  man, 
with  a  long-handled  shovel  and  pickaxe  strapped  on  his 
back,  and  a  frying-pan  depending  from  his  saddle.  But 
no  panoplied  or  armed  knight  ever  seemed  so  heroic  or 
independent  a  figure  to  Clarence.  What  could  be  finer 
than  the  noble  scorn  conveyed  in  his  critical  survey  of 
the  train,  with  its  comfortable  covered  wagons  and  appli- 


210  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

ances  of  civilization?  "Ye'll  hev  to  get  rid  of  them  ther 
fixin's  if  yer  goin'  in  for  placer  diggin' !"  What  a  cor- 
roboration  of  Clarence's  real  thoughts !  What  a  pictare 
of  independence  was  this !  The  picturesque  scout,  the 
all-powerful  Judge  Peyton,  the  daring  young  officer,  all 
crumbled  on  their  clayey  pedestals  before  this  hero  in  a 
red  flannel  shirt  and  high-topped  boots.  To  stroll  around 
in  the  open  air  all  day,  and  pick  up  those  shining  bits 
of  metal,  without  study,  without  method  or  routine — 
this  was  really  life ;  to  some  day  come  upon  that  large 
nugget  "you  couldn't  lift,"  that  was  worth  as  much  as 
the  train  and  horses — such  a  one  as  the  stranger  said  was 
found  the  other  day  at  Sawyer's  Bar — this  was  worth 
giving  up  everything  for.  That  rough  man,  with  his 
smile  of  careless  superiority,  was  the  living  link  between 
Clarence  and  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights ;  in  him  were 
Aladdin  and  Sindbad  incarnate. 

Two  days  later  they  reached  Stockton.  Here  Clarence, 
whose  single  suit  of  clothes  had  been  reinforced  by  patch 
ing,  odds  and  ends  from  Peyton's  stores,  and  an  extraor 
dinary  costume  of  army  cloth,  got  up  by  the  regimental 
tailor  at  Fort  Ridge,  was  taken  to  be  refitted  at  a  general 
furnishing  "emporium."  But  alas !  in  the  selection  of 
the  clothing  for  that  adult  locality  scant  provision  seemed 
to  have  been  made  for  a  boy  of  Clarence's  years,  and  he 
was  with  difficulty  fitted  from  an  old  condemned  Gov 
ernment  stores  with  "a  boy's"  seaman  suit  and  a  brass- 
buttoned  pea-jacket.  To  this  outfit  Mr.  Peyton  added  a 
small  sum  of  money  for  his  expenses,  and  a  letter  of 
explanation  to  his  cousin.  The  stage-coach  was  to  start 
at  noon.  It  only  remained  for  Clarence  to  take  leave  of 
the  party.  The  final  parting  with  Susy  had  been  dis 
counted  on  the  two  previous  days  with  some  tears,  small 
frights  and  clingings,  and  the  expressed  determination  on 
the  child's  part  "to  go  with  him;"  but  in  the  excitement 
of  the  arrival  at  Stockton  it  was  still  further  mitigated, 
and  under  the  influence  of  a  little  present  from  Clarence 
— his  first  disbursement  of  his  small  cap'tal — had  at  last 
taken  the  form  and  promise  of  merely  temporary  separa 
tion.  Nevertheless,  when  the  boy's  scanty  pack  was  deposj 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  211 

ited  under  the  stage-coach  seat,  and  he  had  been  left 
alone,  he  ran  rapidly  back  to  the  train  for  one  moment 
more  with  Susy.  Panting  and  a  little  frightened,  he 
reached  Mrs.  Peyton's  car. 

"Goodness !  You're  not  gone  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton 
sharply.  "Do  you  want  to  lose  the  stage  ?" 

An  instant  before,  in  his  loneliness,  he  might  have 
answered,  "Yes."  But  under  the  cruel  sting  of  Mrs.  Pey 
ton's  evident  annoyance  at  his  reappearance  he  felt  his 
legs  suddenly  tremble,  and  his  voice  left  him.  He  did 
not  dare  to  look  at  Susy.  But  her  voice  rose  comfortably 
from  the  depths  of  the  wagon  where  she  was  sitting. 

"The  stage  will  be  gone  away,  Kla'uns." 

She  too !  Shame  at  his  foolish  weakness  sent  the 
yearning  blood  that  had  settled  round  his  heart  flying 
back  into  his  face. 

"I  was  looking  for — for — for  Jim,  ma'am,"  he  said  at 
last,  boldly. 

He  saw  a  look  of  disgust  pass  over  Mrs.  Peyton's  face, 
and  felt  a  malicious  satisfaction  as  he  turned  and  ran 
back  to  the  stage.  But  here,  to  his  surprise,  he  actually 
found  Jim,  whom  he  really  hadn't  thought  of,  darkly 
watching  the  last  strapping  of  luggage.  With  a  manner 
calculated  to  convey  the  impression  to  the  other  passen 
gers  that  he  was  parting  from  a  brother  criminal,  probably 
on  his  way  to  a  state  prison,  Jim  shook  hands  gloomily 
with  Clarence,  and  eyed  the  other  passengers  furtively 
between  his  mated  locks. 

"Ef  ye  hear  o'  anythin'  happenin',  ye'll  know  what's 
up,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hoarse,  but  perfectly  audible  whis 
per.  "Me  and  them's  bound  to  part  company  afore  long. 
Tell  the  fellows  at  Deadman's  Gulch  to  look  out  for  me 
at  any  time." 

Although  Clarence  was  not  going  to  Deadman's  Gulch, 
knew  nothing  of  it,  and  had  a  faint  suspicion  that  Jim  was 
equally  ignorant,  yet  as  one  or  two  of  the  passengers 
glanced  anxiously  at  the  demure,  gray-eyed  boy  who 
seemed  booked  for  such  a  baleful  destination,  he  really 
felt  the  half-delighted,  half-frightened  consciousness  that 
he  was  starting  in  life  under  fascinating  immoral  pre- 


212  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

tenses.  But  the  forward  spring  of  the  fine-spirited  horses, 
the  quickened  motion,  the  glittering  sunlight,  and  the 
thought  that  he  really  was  leaving  behind  him  all  the 
shackles  of  dependence  and  custom,  and  plunging  into  a 
life  of  freedom,  drove  all  else  from  his  mind.  He  turned 
at  last  from  this  hopeful,  blissful  future,  and  began  to 
examine  his  fellow  passengers  with  boyish  curiosity. 
Wedged  in  between  two  silent  men  on  the  front  seat,  one 
of  whom  seemed  a  farmer,  and  the  other,  by  his  black 
attire,  a  professional  man,  Clarence  was  finally  attracted 
by  a  black-mantled,  dark-haired,  bonnetless  woman  on  the 
back  seat,  whose  attention  seemed  to  be  monopolized  by 
the  jocular  gallantries  of  her  companions  and  the  two 
men  before  her  in  the  middle  seat.  From  her  position 
he  could  see  little  more  than  her  dark  eyes,  which  occa 
sionally  seemed  to  meet  his  frank  curiosity  in  an  amused 
sort  of  way,  but  he.  was  chiefly  struck  by  the  pretty 
foreign  sound  of  hex-  musical  voice,  which  was  unlike 
anything  he  had  ever  heard  before,  and — alas  for  the 
inconstancy  of  youth — much  finer  than  Mrs.  Peyton's. 
Presently  his  farmer  companion,  casting  a  patronizing 
glance  on  Clarence's  pea-jacket  and  brass  buttons,  said 
cheerily — 

"Jest  off  a  voyage,  sonny  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  stammered  Clarence;  "I  came  across  the 
plains." 

"Then  I  reckon  that's  the  rig-out  for  the  crew  of  a 
prairie  schooner,  eh?"  There  was  a  laugh  at  this  which 
perplexed  Clarence.  Observing  it,  the  humorist  kindly 
condescended  to  explain  that  "prairie  schooner"  was  the 
current  slang  for  an  emigrant  wagon. 

"I  couldn't,"  explained  Clarence,  naively  looking  at  the 
dark  eyes  on  the  back  seat,  "get  any  clothes  at  Stockton 
but  these ;  I  suppose  the  folks  didn't  think  there'd  ever  be 
boys  in  California." 

The  simplicity  of  this  speech  evidently  impressed  the 
others,  for  the  two  men  in  the  middle  seats  turned  at  a 
whisper  from  the  lady  and  regarded  him  curiously.  Clar 
ence  blushed  slightly  and  became  silent.  Presently  the 
vehicle  began  to  slacken  its  speed.  They  were  ascending 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  213 

a  hill ;  on  either  bank  grew  huge  cottonwoods,  from  which 
occasionally  depended  a  beautiful  scarlet  vine. 

"Ah  !  eet  ees  pretty,"  said  the  lady,  nodding  her  black- 
veiled  head  towards  it.  "Eet  is  good  in  ze  hair." 

One  of  the  men  made  an  awkward  attempt  to  clutch  a 
spray  from  the  window.  A  brilliant  inspiration  flashed 
upon  Clarence.  When  the  stage  began  the  ascent  of  the 
next  hill,  following  the  example  of  an  outside  passenger, 
he  jumped  down  to  walk.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  he  re 
joined  the  stage,  flushed  and  panting,  but  carrying  a  small 
branch  of  the  vine  in  his  scratched  hands.  Handing  it 
to  the  man  on  the  middle  seat,  he  said,  with  grave,  boyish 
politeness — "Please — for  the  lady." 

A  slight  smile  passed  over  the  face  of  Clarence's  neigh 
bors.  The  bonnetless  woman  nodded  a  pleasant  acknowl 
edgment,  and  coquettishly  wound  the  vine  in  her  glossy 
hair.  The  dark  man  at  his  side,  who  hadn't  spoken  yet, 
turned  to  Clarence  dryly. 

"If  you're  goin'  to  keep  up  this  gait,  sonny,  I  reckon 
ye  won't  find  much  trouble  gettin'  a  man's  suit  to  fit  you 
by  the  time  you  reach  Sacramento." 

Clarence  didn't  quite  understand  him,  but  noticed  that 
a  singular  gravity  seemed  to  overtake  the  two  jocular 
men  on  the  middle  seat,  and  the  lady  looked  out  of  the 
window.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake  about  alluding  to  his  clothes  and  his  size.  He 
must  try  and  behave  more  manly.  That  opportunity 
seemed  to  be  offered  two  hours  later,  when  the  stage 
stopped  at  a  wayside  hotel  or  restaurant. 

Two  or  three  passengers  had  got  down  to  refresh  them 
selves  at  the  bar.  His  right  and  left  hand  neighbors  were, 
however,  engaged  in  a  drawling  conversation  on  the  com 
parative  merits  of  San  Francisco  sandhill  and  water  lots ; 
the  jocular  occupants  of  the  middle  seat  were  still  en 
grossed  with  the  lady.  Clarence  slipped  out  of  the  stage 
and  entered  the  bar-room  with  some  ostentation.  The 
complete  ignoring  of  his  person  by  the  barkeeper  and  his 
customers,  however,  somewhat  disconcerted  him.  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  returned  gravely  to  the 
stage  door  and  opened  it. 


214  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

"Would  you  mind  taking  a  drink  with  me,  sir?"  said 
Clarence  politely,  addressing  the  farmer-looking  passenger 
who  had  been  most  civil  to  him.  A  dead  silence  followed. 
The  two  men  on  the  middle  seat  faced  entirely  around  to 
gaze  at  him. 

"The  Commodore  asks  if  you'll  take  a  drink  with  him," 
explained  one  of  the  men  to  Clarence's  friend  with  the 
greatest  seriousness. 

"Eh?  Oh,  yes,  certainly,"  returned  that  gentleman, 
changing  his  astonished  expression  to  one  of  the  deepest 
gravity,  "seeing  it's  the  Commodore." 

"And  perhaps  you  and  your  friend  will  join,  too?"  said 
Clarence  timidly  to  the  passenger  who  had  explained; 
"and  you  too,  sir?"  he  added  to  the  dark  man. 

"Really,  gentlemen,  I  don't  see  how  we  can  refuse," 
said  the  latter,  with  the  greatest  formality,  and  appealing 
to  the  others.  "A  compliment  of  this  kind  froir  our  dis 
tinguished  friend  is  not  to  be  taken  lightly." 

"I  have  observed,  sir,  that  the  Commodore's  head  is 
level,"  returned  the  other  man  with  equal  gravity. 

Clarence  could  have  wished  they  had  not  treated  his 
first  hospitable  effort  quite  so  formally,  but  as  they  stepped 
from  the  coach  with  unbending  faces  he  led  them,  a  little 
frightened,  into  the  bar-room.  Here,  unfortunately,  as  he 
was  barely  able  to  reach  over  the  counter,  the  barkeeper 
would  have  again  overlooked  him  but  for  a  quick  glance 
from  the  dark  man,  which  seemed  to  change  even  the  bar 
keeper's  perfunctory  smiling  face  into  supernatural  gravity. 

"The  Commodore  is  standing  treat,"  said  the  dark  man, 
with  unbroken  seriousness,  indicating  Clarence,  and  lean 
ing  back  with  an  air  of  respectful  formality.  "I  will  take 
straight  whiskey.  The  Commodore,  on  account  of  just 
changing  climate,  will,  I  believe,  for  the  present  content 
himself  with  lemon  soda." 

Clarence  had  previously  resolved  to  take  whiskey,  like 
the  others,  but  a  little  doubtful  of  the  politeness  of  coun 
termanding  his  guest's  order,  and  perhaps  slightly  embar 
rassed  by  the  fact  that  all  the  other  customers  seemed  to 
have  gathered  round  him  and  his  party  with  equally 
immovable  faces,  he  said  hurriedly : 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  215 

"Lemon  soda  for  me,  please." 

"The  Commodore,"  said  the  barkeeper  with  impassive 
features,  as  he  bent  forward  and  wiped  the  counter  with 
professional  deliberation,  "is  right.  No  matter  how  much 
a  man  may  be  accustomed  all  his  life  to  liquor,  when  he 
is  changing  climate,  gentlemen,  he  says  'Lemon  soda  for 
me'  all  the  time." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Clarence,  brightening,  "you  will  join 
too?" 

"I  shall  be  proud  on  this  occasion,  sir." 

"I  think,"  said  the  tall  man,  still  as  ceremoniously  un 
bending  as  before,  "that  there  can  be  but  one  toast  here, 
gentlemen.  I  give  you  the  health  of  the  Commodore. 
May  his  shadow  never  be  less." 

The  health  was  drunk  solemnly.  Clarence  felt  his 
cheeks  tingle  and  in  his  excitement  drank  his  own  health 
with  the  others.  Yet  he  was  disappointed  that  there  was 
not  more  joviality;  he  wondered  if  men  always  drank 
together  so  stiffly.  And  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  would 
be  expensive.  Nevertheless,  he  had  his  purse  all  ready 
ostentatiously  in  his  hand ;  in  fact,  the  paying  for  it  out 
of  his  own  money  was  not  the  least  manly  and  inde 
pendent  pleasure  he  had  promised  himself.  "How  much  ?" 
he  asked,  with  an  affectation  of  carelessness. 

The  barkeeper  cast  his  eye  professionally  over  the  bar 
room.  "I  think  you  said  treats  for  the  crowd;  call  it 
twenty  dollars  to  make  even  change." 

Clarence's  heart  sank.  He  had  heard  already  of  the 
exaggeration  of  California  prices.  Twenty  dollars !  It 
was  half  his  fortune.  Nevertheless,  with  an  heroic  effort, 
he  controlled  himself,  and  with  slightly  nervous  fingers 
counted  out  the  money.  It  struck  him,  however,  as  curi 
ous,  not  to  say  ungentlermnly,  that  the  bystanders  craned 
their  necks  over  his  shoulder  to  look  at  the  contents  of  his 
purse,  although  some  slight  explanation  was  offered  by 
the  tall  man. 

"The  Commodore's  purse,  gentlemen,  is  really  a 
singular  one.  Permit  me,"  he  said,  taking  it  from  Clar 
ence's  hand  with  great  politeness.  "It  is  one  of  the  new 
pattern,  you  observe,  quite  worthy  of  inspection."  He 


216  A   WAIF  OF  THE   PLAINS 

handed  it  to  a  man  behind  him,  who  in  turn  handed  it  to 
another,  while  a  chorus  of  "suthin  quite  new,"  "the 
latest  style,"  followed  it  in  its  passage  round  the  room, 
and  indicated  to  Clarence  its  whereabouts.  It  was  pres 
ently  handed  back  to  the  barkeeper,  who  had  begged 
also  to  inspect  it,  and  who,  with  an  air  of  scrupulous 
ceremony  insisted  upon  placing  it  himself  in  Clarence's 
side  pocket,  as  if  it  were  an  important  part  of  his  func 
tion.  The  driver  here  called  "all  aboard."  The 
passengers  hurriedly  reseated  themselves,  and  the  episode 
abruptly  ended.  For,  to  Clarence's  surprise,  these  atten 
tive  friends  of  a  moment  ago  at  once  became  interested 
in  the  views  of  a  new  passenger  concerning  the  local 
politics  of  San  Francisco,  and  he  found  himself  utterly 
forgotten.  The  bonnetless  woman  had  changed  her  posi 
tion,  and  her  head  was  no  longer  visible.  The  disillu 
sion  and  depression  that  overcame  him  suddenly  were  as 
complete  as  his  previous  expectations  and  hopefulness 
had  been  extravagant.  For  the  first  time  his  utter  unim 
portance  in  the  world  and  his  inadequacy  to  this  new 
life  around  him  came  upon  him  crushingly. 

The  heat  and  jolting  of  the  stage  caused  him  to  fall 
into  a  slight  slumber  and  when  he  awoke  he  found  his 
two  neighbors  had  just  got  out  at  a  wayside  station. 
They  had  evidently  not  cared  to  waken  him  to  say 
"Good-by."  From  the  conversation  of  the  other  passen 
gers  he  learned  that  the  tall  man  was  a  well-known 
gambler,  and  the  one  who  looked  like  a  farmer  was  a 
ship  captain  who  had  become  a  wealthy  merchant.  Clar 
ence  thought  he  understood  now  why  the  latter  had 
asked  him  if  he  came  off  a  voyage,  and  that  the  nick 
name  of  "Commodore"  given  to  him,  Clarence,  was  some 
joke  intended  for  the  captain's  understanding.  He 
missed  them,  for  he  wanted  to  talk  to  them  about  his 
relative  at  Sacramento,  whom  he  was  now  so  soon  to 
see.  At  last,  between  sleeping  and  waking,  the  end  of 
his  journey  was  unexpectedly  reached.  It  was  dark, 
but,  being  "steamer  night,"  the  shops  and  business  places 
were  still  open,  and  Mr.  Peyton  had  arranged  that  the 
stage-driver  should  deliver  Clarence  at  the  address  of  his 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  217 

relative  in  "J  Street," — an  address  which  Clarence  had 
luckily  remembered.  But  the  boy  was  somewhat  discom 
fited  to  find  that  it  was  a  large  office  or  banking-house. 
He,  however,  descended  from  the  stage,  and  with  his 
small  pack  in  his  hand  entered  the  building  as  the  stage 
drove  off,  and,  addressing  one  of  the  busy  clerks,  asked 
for  "Mr.  Jackson  Brant." 

There  was  no  such  person  in  the  office.  There  never 
had  been  any  such  person.  The  bank  had  always  occu 
pied  that  building.  Was  there  not  some  mistake  in  the 
number?  No;  the  name,  number,  and  street  had  been 
deeply  engrafted  in  the  boy's  recollection.  Stop !  it 
might  be  the  name  of  a  customer  who  had  given  his 
address  at  the  bank.  The  clerk  who  made  this  sugges 
tion  disappeared  promptly  to  make  inquiries  in  the 
counting-room.  Clarence,  with  a  rapidly  beating  heart, 
awaited  him.  The  clerk  returned.  There  was  no  such 
name  on  the  books.  Jackson  Brant  was  utterly  unknown 
to  every  one  in  the  establishment. 

For  an  instant  the  counter  against  which  the  boy 
was,  leaning  seemed  to  yield  with  his  weight;  he  was 
obliged  to  steady  himself  with  both  hands  to  keep  from 
falling.  It  was  not  his  disappointment,  which  was  ter 
rible;  it  was  not  a  thought  of  his  future,  which  seemed 
hopeless;  it  was  not  his  injured  pride  at  appearing  to 
have  willfully  deceived  Mr.  Peyton,  which  was  more 
dreadful  than  all  else ;  but  it  was  the  sudden,  sickening 
sense  that  he  himself  had  been  deceived,  tricked,  and 
fooled !  For  it  flashed  upon  him  for  the  first  time  that 
the  vague  sense  of  wrong  which  had  always  haunted 
him  was  this — that  this  was  the  vile  culmination  of  a 
plan  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  that  he  had  been  deliberately 
lost  and  led  astray  by  his  relatives  as  helplessly  and 
completely  as  a  useless  cat  or  dog ! 

Perhaps  there  was  something  of  this  in  his  face,  for 
the  clerk,  staring  at  him,  bade  him  sit  down  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  again  vanished  into  the  mysterious  interior. 
Clarence  had  no  conception  how  long  he  was  absent, 
or  indeed  anything  but  his  own  breathless  thoughts,  for 
he  was  conscious  of  wondering  afterwards  why  the  clerk 


218  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

was  leading  him  through  a  door  in  the  counter  into  an 
inner  room  of  many  desks,  and  again  through  a  glass 
door  into  a  smaller  office,  where  a  preternaturally  busy- 
looking  man  sat  writing  at  a  desk.  Without  looking  up, 
but  pausing  only  to  apply  a  blotting-pad  to  the  paper 
before  him,  the  man  said  crisply — 

"So  you've  been  consigned  to  some  one  who  don't 
seem  to  turn  up,  and  can't  be  found,  eh?  Never  mind 
that,"  as  Clarence  laid  Peyton's  letter  before  him.  "Can't 
read  it  now.  Well,  I  suppose  you  want  to  be  shipped 
back  to  Stockton?" 

"No !"  said  the  boy,  recovering  his  voice  with  an  effort. 

"Eh,  that's  business,  though.    Know  anybody  here?" 

"Not  a  living  soul ;  that's  why  they  sent  me,"  said  the 
boy,  in  sudden  reckless  desperation.  He  was  the  more 
furious  that  he  knew  the  tears  were  standing  in  his 
eyes. 

The  idea  seemed  to  strike  the  man  amusingly.  "Looks 
a  little  like  it,  don't  it?"  he  said,  smiling  grimly  at  the 
paper  before  him.  "Got  any  money?" 

"A  little." 

"How  much?" 

"About  twenty  dollars,"  said  Clarence  hesitatingly. 
The  man  opened  a  drawer  at  his  side,  mechanically,  for 
he  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  and  took  out  two  ten-dollar 
gold  pieces.  "I'll  go  twenty  better,"  he  said,  laying  them 
down  on  the  desk.  "That'll  give  you  a  chance  to  look 
around.  Come  back  here,  if  you  don't  see  your  way 
clear."  He  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  with  a  signifi 
cant  gesture  as  if  closing  the  interview. 

Clarence  pushed  back  the  coin.  "I'm  not  a  beggar," 
he  said  doggedly. 

The  man  this  time  raised  his  head  and  surveyed  the 
boy  with  two  keen  eyes.  "You're  not,  hey?  Well,  do  I 
look  like  one?" 

"No,"  stammered  Clarence,  as  he  glanced  into  the 
man's  haughty  eyes. 

"Yet,  if  I  were  in  your  fix,  I'd  take  that  money  and 
be  glad  to  get  it." 

"If  you'll  let  me  pay  you  back  again,"  said  Clarence, 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  219 

a  little  ashamed,  and  considerably  frightened  at  his  im 
plied  accusation  of  the  man  before  him. 

"You  can,"  said  the  man,  bending  over  his  desk  again. 

Clarence  took  up  the  money  and  awkwardly  drew  out 
his  purse.  But  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  touched  it 
since  it  was  returned  to  him  in  the  bar-room,  and  it 
struck  him  that  it  was  heavy  and  full — indeed,  so  full 
that  on  opening  it  a  few  coins  rolled  out  on  to  the 
floor.  The  man  looked  up  abruptly. 

"I  thought  you  said  you  had  only  twenty  dollars?"  he 
remarked  grimly. 

"Mr.  Peyton  gave  me  forty,"  returned  Clarence,  stupe 
fied  and  blushing.  "I  spent  twenty  dollars  for  drinks  at 
the  bar — and,"  he  stammered,  "I — I — I  don't  know  how 
the  rest  came  here," 

"You  spent  twenty  dollars  for  drinks?"  said  the  man, 
laying  down  his  pen,  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair  to 
gaze  at  the  boy. 

"Yes — that  is — I  treated  some  gentlemen  of  the  stage, 
sir,  at  Davidson's  Crossing." 

"Di8  you  treat  the  whole  stage  company?" 

"No,  sir,  only  about  four  or  five — and  the  bar-keeper. 
But  everything's  so  dear  in  California.  7  know  that." 

"Evidently.  But  it  don't  seem  to  make  much  difference 
with  you,"  said  the  man,  glancing  at  the  purse. 

"They  wanted  my  purse  to  look  at,"  said  Clarence 
hurriedly,  "and  that's  how  the  thing  happened.  Some 
body  put  his  own  money  back  into  my  purse  by  acci 
dent." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  man  grimly. 

"Yes,  that's  the  reason,"  said  Clarence,  a  little  re 
lieved,  but  somewhat  embarrassed  by  the  man's  per 
sistent  eyes. 

"Then,  of  course,"  said  the  other  quietly,  "you  don't 
require  my  twenty  dollars  now." 

"But,"  returned  Clarence  hesitatingly,  "this  isn't 
my  money.  I  must  find  out  who  it  belongs  to,  and  give 
it  back  again.  Perhaps,"  he  added  timidly,  "I  might 
leave  it  here  with  you,  and  call  for  it  when  I  find  the 
man,  or  send  him  here." 


220  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

With  the  greatest  gravity  he  here  separated  the  sur 
plus  from  what  was"  left  of  Peyton's  gift  and  the  twenty 
dollars  he  had  just  received.  The  balance  unaccounted 
for  was  forty  dollars.  He  laid  it  on  the  desk  before  the 
man,  who,  still  looking  at  him,  rose  and  opened  the  door 

"Mr.  Reed." 

The  clerk  who  had  shown  Clarence  in  appeared. 

"Open  an  account  with—"  He  stopped  and  turned  in 
terrogatively  to  Clarence. 

"Clarence  Brant,"  said  Clarence,  coloring  with  ex 
citement. 

"With  Clarence  Brant.  Take  that  deposit"— pointing 
to  the  money — "and  give  him  a  receipt."  He  paused 
as  the  clerk  retired  with  a  wondering  gaze  at  the  money, 
looked  again  at  Clarence,  said,  "I  think  you'll  do,"  and 
reentered  the  private  office,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

I  hope  it  will  not  be  deemed  inconceivable  that  Clar 
ence,  only  a  few  moments  before  crushed  with  bitter 
disappointment  and  the  hopeless  revelation  of  his  aban 
donment  by  his  relatives,  now  felt  himself  lifted  up  sud 
denly  into  an  imaginary  height  of  independence  and 
manhood.  He  was  leaving  the  bank,  in  which  he  stood 
a  minute  before  a  friendless  boy,  not  as  a  successful 
beggar,  for  this  important  man  had  disclaimed  the  idea, 
but  absolutely  as  a  customer!  a  depositor!  a  business 
man  like  the  grown-up  clients  who  were  thronging  the 
outer  office,  and  before  the  eyes  of  the  clerk  who  had 
pitied  him !  And  he,  Clarence,  had  been  spoken  to  by 
this  man,  whose  name  he  now  recognized  as  the  one 
that  was  on  the  door  of  the  building — a  man  of  whom 
his  fellow-passengers  had  spoken  with  admiring  envy — 
a  banker  famous  in  all  California !  Will  it  be  deemed 
incredible  that  this  imaginative  and  hopeful  boy,  for 
getting  all  else,  the  object  of  his  visit,  and  even  the  fact 
that  he  considered  this  money  was  not  his  own,  actually 
put  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side  as  he  strolled  out  on  his 
way  to  the  streets  and  prospective  fortune? 

Two  hours  later  the  banker  had  another  visitor.  It 
chanced  to  be  the  farmer-looking  man  who  had  been 
Clarence's  fellow-passenger.  Evidently  a  privileged  per- 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  221 

son,  he  was  at  once  ushered  as  "Captain  Stevens"  into 
the  presence  of  the  banker.  At  the  end  of  a  familiar 
business  interview  the  captain  asked  carelessly — 

"Any  letters  for  me?" 

The  busy  banker  pointed  with  his  pen  to  the  letter 
"S"  in  a  row  of  alphabetically  labeled  pigeon-holes  against 
the  wall.  The  captain,  having  selected  his  correspond 
ence,  paused  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Look  here,  Garden,  there  are  letters  here  for  some 
chap  called  'John  Silsbee.'  They  were  here  when  I 
called,  ten  weeks  ago." 

"Well?" 

"That's  the  name  of  that  Pike  County  man  who  was 
killed  by  Injins  in  the  plains.  The  'Frisco  papers  had 
all  the  particulars  last  night ;  may  be  it's  for  that  fellow. 
It  hasn't  got  a  postmark.  Who  left  it  here?" 

Mr.  Garden  summoned  a  clerk.  It  appeared  that  the 
letter  had  been  left  by  a  certain  Brant  Fauquier,  to  be 
called  for. 

Captain  Stevens  smiled.  "Brant's  been  too  busy 
dealin'  faro  to  think  of  'em  agin,  and  since  that  shootin' 
affair  at  Angels'  I  hear  he's  skipped  to  the  southern 
coast  somewhere.  Cal  Johnson,  his  old  chum,  was  in 
the  up  stage  from  Stockton  this  afternoon." 

"Did  you  come  by  the  up  stage  from  Stockton  this 
afternoon  ?"  said  Garden,  looking  up. 

"Yes,  as  far  as  Ten-mile  Station — rode  the  rest  of  the 
way  here." 

"Did  you  notice  a  queer  little  old-fashioned  kid — about 
so  high — like  a  runaway  school-boy  ?" 

"Did  I?     By  G — d,  sir,  he  treated  me  to  drinks." 

Garden  jumped  from  his  chair.  "Then  he  wasn't 
lying!" 

"No !  We  let  him  do  it ;  but  we  made  it  good  for  the 
little  chap  afterwards.  Hello !  What's  up  ?" 

But  Mr.  Garden  was  already  in  the  outer  office  beside 
the  clerk  who  had  admitted  Clarence. 

"You  remember  that  boy  Brant  who  was  here?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Where  did  he  go?" 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

"Don't  know,  sir." 

"Go  and  find  him  somewhere  and  somehow.  Go  to 
all  the  hotels,  restaurants,  and  gin-mills  near  here,  and 
hunt  him  up.  Take  some  one  with  you,  if  you  can't  do 
it  alone.  Bring  him  back  here,  quick !" 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  clerk  fruitlessly  re 
turned.  It  was  the  fierce  high  noon  of  "steamer  nights" ; 
light  flashed  brilliantly  from  shops,  counting-houses, 
drinking-saloons,  and  gambling-hells.  The  streets  were 
yet  full  of  eager,  hurrying  feet — swift  of  fortune,  ambi 
tion,  pleasure,  or  crinm  But  from  among  these  deeper 
harsher  footfalls  the  echo  of  the  homeless  boy's  light, 
innocent  treaf1  seemed  to  have  died  out  forever. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WHEN  Clarence  was  once  more  in  the  busy  street 
before  the  bank,  it  seemed  clear  to  his  boyish  mind  that, 
being  now  cast  adrift  upon  the  world  and  responsible 
to  no  one,  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  at 
once  proceed  to  the  nearest  gold  mines !  The  idea  of 
returning  to  Mr.  Peyton  and  Susy,  as  a  disowned  and 
abandoned  outcast,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  He  would 
purchase  some  kind  of  an  outfit,  such  as  he  had  seen 
the  miners  carry,  and  start  off  as  soon  as  he  had  got 
his  supper.  But  although  one  of  his  most  delightful 
anticipations  had  been  the  unfettered  freedom  of  order 
ing  a  meal  at  a  restaurant,  on  entering  the  first  one 
he  found  himself  the  object  of  so  much  curiosity,  partly 
from  his  size  and  partly  from  his  dress,  which  the  un 
fortunate  boy  was  beginning  to  suspect  was  really  pre 
posterous,  and  he  turned  away  with  a  stammered  excuse, 
and  did  not  try  another.  Further  on  he  found  a  baker's 
shop,  where  he  refreshed  himself  with  some  ginger 
bread  and  lemon  soda.  At  an  adjacent  grocery  he  pur 
chased  some  herrings,  smoked  beef,  and  biscuits,  as 
future  provisions  for  his  "pack"  or  kit.  Then  began  his 
real  quest  for  an  outfit.  In  an  hour  he  had  secured — 
ostensibly  for  some  friend,  to  avoid  curious  inquiry — a 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  223 

pan,  a  blanket,  a  shovel  and  pick,  all  of  which  he  de 
posited  at  the  baker's,  his  unostentatious  headquarters, 
with  the  exception  of  a  pair  of  disguising  high  boots  that 
half  hid  his  sailor  trousers,  which  he  kept  to  put  on 
at  the  last.  Even  to  his  inexperience  the  cost  of  these 
articles  seemed  enormous ;  when  his  purchases  were  com 
plete,  of  his  entire  capital  scarcely  four  dollars  remained ! 
Yet  in  the  fond  illusions  of  boyhood  these  rude  appoint 
ments  seemed  possessed  of  far  more  value  than  the  gold 
he  had  given  in  exchange  for  them,  and  he  had  enjoyed 
a  child's  delight  in  testing  the  transforming  magic  of 
money. 

Meanwhile,  the  feverish  contact  of  the  crowded  street 
had,  strange  to  say,  increased  his  loneliness,  while  the 
ruder  joviality  of  its  dissipations  began  to  fill  him  with 
vague  uneasiness.  The  passing  glimpse  of  dancing  halls 
and  gaudily  whirled  figures  that  seemed  only  feminine 
in  their  apparel ;  the  shouts  and  boisterous  choruses  from 
concert  rooms;  the  groups  of  drunken  roisterers  that 
congregated  around  the  doors  of  saloons  or,  hilariously 
charging  down  the  streets,  elbowed  him  against  the  wall, 
or  humorously  insisted  on  his  company,  discomposed  and 
frightened  him.  He  had  known  rude  companionship  be 
fore,  but  it  was  serious,  practical,  and  under  control. 
There  was  something  in  this  vulgar  degradation  of  in 
tellect  and  power — qualities  that  Clarence  had  always 
boyishly  worshiped — which  sickened  and  disillusioned 
him.  Later  on  a  pistol  shot  in  a  crowd  beyond,  the  rush 
of  eager  men  past  him,  the  disclosure  of  a  limp  and 
helpless  figure  against  the  wall,  the  closing  of  the  crowd 
again  around  it,  although  it  stirred  him  with  a  fearful 
curiosity,  actually  shocked  him  less  hopelessly  than  their 
brutish  enjoyments  and  abandonment. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  rushes  that  he  had  been  crushed 
against  a  swinging  door,  which,  giving  way  to  his  pres 
sure,  disclosed  to  his  wondering  eyes  a  long,  glitter- 
ingly  adorned,  and  brightly  lit  room,  densely  filled  with 
a  silent,  attentive  throng  in  attitudes  of  decorous  ab 
straction  and  preoccupation,  that  even  the  shouts  and 
tumult  at  its  very  doors  could  not  disturb.  Men  of  all 


224  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

ranks  and  conditions,  plainly  or  elaborately  clad,  were 
grouped  together  under  this  magic  spell  of  silence  and 
attention.  The  tables  before  them  were  covered  with 
cards  and  loose  heaps  of  gold  and  silver.  A  clicking,  the 
rattling  of  an  ivory  ball,  and  the  frequent,  formal,  lazy 
reiteration  of  some  unintelligible  sentence  was  all  that 
he  heard.  But  by  a  sudden  instinct  he  understood  it  all. 
It  was  a  gambling  saloon ! 

Encouraged  by  the  decorous  stillness,  and  the  fact 
that  everybody  appeared  too  much  engaged  to  notice  him, 
the  boy  drew  timidly  beside  one  of  the  tables.  It  was 
covered  with  a  number  of  cards,  on  which  were  placed 
certain  sums  of  money.  Looking  down,  Clarence  saw 
that  he  was  standing  before  a  card  that  as  yet  had 
nothing  on  it.  A  single  player  at  his  side  looked  up, 
glanced  at  Clarence  curiously,  and  then  placed  half  a 
dozen  gold  pieces  on  the  vacant  card.  Absorbed  in  the 
general  aspect  of  the  room  and  the  players,  Clarence 
did  not  notice  that  his  neighbor  won  twice,  and  even 
thrice,  upon  that  card.  Becoming  aware,  however,  that 
the  player  while  gathering  in  his  gains,  was  smilingly 
regarding  him  he  moved  in  some  embarrassment  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  where  there  seemed  another  gap 
in  the  crowd.  It  so  chanced  that  there  was  also  another 
vacant  card.  The  previous  neighbor  of  Clarence  in 
stantly  shoved  a  sum  of  money  across  the  table  on  the 
vacant  card  and  won !  At  this  the  other  players  began 
to  regard  Clarence  singularly,  one  or  two  of  the  spec 
tators  smiled,  and  the  boy,  coloring,  moved  awkwardly 
away.  But  his  sleeve  was  caught  by  the  successful 
player,  who,  detaining  him  gently,  put  three  gold  pieces 
into  his  hand. 

"That's  your  share,  sonny,"  he  whispered. 

"Share — for  what?"  stammered  the  astounded  Clar 
ence. 

"For  bringing  me  'the  luck,' "  said  the  man. 

Clarence  stared.  "Am  I — to — to  play  with  it?"  he 
said,  glancing  at  the  coins  and  then  at  the  table,  in  igno 
rance  of  the  stranger's  meaning. 

"No,   no !"    said   the    man    hurriedly,    "don't   do    that. 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

You'll  lose  it,  sonny,  sure !  Don't  you  see,  you  bring  the 
luck  to  others,  not  to  yourself.  Keep  it,  old  man,  and 
run  home !" 

"I  don't  want  it !  I  won't  have  it !"  said  Clarence  with 
a  swift  recollection  of  the  manipulation  of  his  purse 
that  morning,  and  a  sudden  distrust  of  all  mankind. 

"There !"  He  turned  back  to  the  table  and  laid  the 
money  on  the  first  vacant  card  he  saw.  In  another 
moment,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  it  was  raked  away  by  the 
dealer.  A  sense  of  relief  came  over  him. 

"There !"  said  the  man,  with  an  awed  voice  and  a 
strange,  fatuous  look  in  his  eye.  "What  did  I  tell  you? 
You  see,  it's  allus  so !  Now,"  he  added  roughly,  "get  up 
and  get  out  o'  this,  afore  you  lose  the  boots  and  shirt 
off  ye." 

Clarence  did  not  wait  for  a  second  command.  With 
another  glance  round  the  room,  he  began  to  make  his 
way  through  the  crowd  towards  the  front.  But  in  that 
parting  glance  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman  pre 
siding  over  a  "wheel  of  fortune"  in  a  corner,  whose  face 
seemed  familiar.  He  looked  again,  timidly.  In  spite  of 
an  extraordinary  head-dress  or  crown  that  she  wore  as 
the  "Goddess  of  Fortune,"  he  recognized,  twisted  in  its 
tinsel,  a  certain  scarlet  vine  which  he  had  seen  before ; 
in  spite  of  the  hoarse  formula  which  she  was  continually 
repeating,  he  recognized  the  foreign  accent.  It  was  the 
woman  of  the  stage-coach !  With  a  sudden  dread  that 
she  might  recognize  him,  and  likewise  demand  his  ser 
vices  "for  luck,"  he  turned  and  fled. 

Once  more  in  the  open  air,  there  came  upon  him  a 
vague  loathing  and  horror  of  the  restless  madness  and 
feverish  distraction  of  this  half-civilized  city.  It  was 
the  more  powerful  that  it  was  vague,  and  the  outcome 
of  some  inward  instinct.  He  found  himself  longing  for 
the  pure  air  and  sympathetic  loneliness  of  the  plains 
and  wilderness;  he  began  to  yearn  for  the  companion 
ship  of  his  humble  associates — the  teamster,  the  scout 
Gildersleeve,  and  even  Jim  Hooker.  But  above  all  and 
before  all  was  the  wild  desire  to  get  away  from  these 
maddening  streets  and  their  bewildering  occupants.  He 
8  v.  2 


226  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

ran  back  to  the  baker's,  gathered  his  purchases  together, 
took  advantage  of  a  friendly  doorway  to  strap  them  on 
his  boyish  shoulders,  slipped  into  a  side  street,  and  struck 
out  at  once  for  the  outskirts. 

It  had  been  his  first  intention  to  take  stage  to  the 
nearest  mining  district,  but  the  diminution  of  his  small 
capital  forbade  that  outlay,  and  he  decided  to  walk  there 
by  the  highroad,  of  whose  general  direction  he  had  in 
formed  himself.  In  half  an  hour  the  lights  of  the  flat, 
struggling  city,  and  their  reflection  in  the  shallow,  turbid 
river  before  it,  had  sunk  well  behind  him.  The  air  was 
cool  and  soft;  a  yellow  moon  swam  in  the  slight  haze 
that  rose  above  the  tules;  in  the  distance  a  few  scat 
tered  cottonwoods  and  sycamores  marked  like  sentinels 
the  road.  When  he  had  walked  some  distance  he  sat 
down  beneath  one  of  them  to  make  a  frugal  supper 
from  the  dry  rations  in  his  pack,  but  in  the  absence  of 
any  spring  he  was  forced  to  quench  his  thirst  with  a 
glass  of  water  in  a  wayside  tavern.  Here  he  was  good- 
humoredly  offered  something  stronger,  which  he  declined, 
and  replied  to  certain  curious  interrogations  by  saying 
that  he  expected  to  overtake  his  friends  in  a  wagon 
further  on.  A  new  distrust  of  mankind  had  begun  to 
make  the  boy  an  adept  in  innocent  falsehood,  the  more 
deceptive  as  his  careless,  cheerful  manner,  the  result  of 
his  relief  at  leaving  the  city,  and  his  perfect  ease  in  the 
loving  companionship  of  night  and  nature,  certainly 
gave  no  indication  of  his  homelessness  and  poverty. 

It  was  long  past  midnight,  when,  weary  in  body,  but 
still  hopeful  and  happy  in  mind,  he  turned  off  the  dusty 
road  into  a  vast  rolling  expanse  of  wild  oats,  with  the 
same  sense  of  security  of  rest  as  a  traveler  to  his  inn. 
Here,  completely  screened  from  view  by  the  tall  stalks 
of  grain  that  rose  thickly  around  him  to  the  height  of  a 
man's  shoulder,  he  beat  down  a  few  of  them  for  a  bed, 
on  which  he  deposited  his  blanket.  Placing  his  pack  for 
a  pillow,  he  curled  himself  up  in  his  blanket,  and  speedily 
fell  asleep. 

He  awoke  at  sunrise,  refreshed,  invigorated,  and  hun 
gry.  But  he  was  forced  to  defer  his  first  self-prepared 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  227 

breakfast  until  he  had  reached  water,  and  a  less  dan 
gerous  place  than  the  wild-oat  field  to  build  his  first  camp 
fire.  This  he  found  a  mile  further  on,  near  some  dwarf 
willows  on  the  bank  of  a  half-dry  stream.  Of  his  various 
efforts  to  prepare  his  first  meal,  the  fire  was  the  most 
successful ;  the  coffee  was  somewhat  too  substantially 
thick,  and  the  bacon  and  herring  lacked  definiteness  of 
quality  from  having  been  cooked  in  the  same  vessel.  In 
this  boyish  picnic  he  missed  Susy,  and  recalled,  perhaps 
a  little  bitterly,  her  coldness  at  parting.  But  the  novelty 
of  his  situation,  the  brilliant  sunshine  and  sense  of 
freedom,  and  the  road  already  awakening  to  dusty  life 
with  passing  teams,  dismissed  everything  but  the  future 
from  his  mind.  Readjusting  his  pack,  he  stepped  on 
cheerily.  At  noon  he  was  overtaken  by  a  teamster, 
who  in  return  for  a  match  to  light  his  pipe  gave  him  a 
lift  of  a  dozen  miles.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  Clarence's 
account  of  himself  was  equally  fanciful  with  his  previous 
story,  and  that  the  teamster  parted  from  him  with  a 
genuine  regret,  and  a  hope  that  he  would  soon  be  over 
taken  by  his  friends  along  the  road.  "And  mind  that 
you  ain't  such  a  fool  agin  to  let  'em  make  you  tote  their 
clod-blasted  tools  fur  them !"  he  added  unsuspectingly, 
pointing  to  Clarence's  mining  outfit.  Thus  saved  the 
heaviest  part  of  the  day's  journey,  for  the  road  was  con 
tinually  rising  from  the  plains  during  the  last  six  miles, 
Clarence  was  yet  abie  to  cover  a  considerable  distance 
on  foot  before  he  halted  for  supper.  Here  he  was  again 
fortunate.  An  empty  lumber  team  watering  at  the  same 
spring,  its  driver  offered  to  take  Clarence's  purchases — 
for  the  boy  had  profited  by  his  late  friend's  suggestion 
to  personally  detach  himself  from  his  equipment — to 
Buckeye  Mills  for  a  dollar,  which  would  also  include 
a  "shakedown  passage"  for  himself  on  the  floor  of  the 
wagon.  "I  reckon  you've  been  foolin'  away  in  Sacra 
mento  the  money  yer  parents  give  yer  for  return  stage 
fare,  eh?  Don't  lie,  sonny,"  he  added  grimly,  as  the  now 
artful  Clarence  smiled  diplomatically.  "I've  been  thar 
myself !"  Luckily,  the  excuse  that  he  was  "tired  and 
sleepy"  prevented  further  dangerous  questioning,  and 


228  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

the  boy  was  soon  really  in  deep  slumber  on  the  wagon 
floor. 

He  awoke  betimes  to  find  himself  already  in  the  moun 
tains.  Buckeye  Mills  was  a  straggling  settlement,  and 
Clarence  prudently  stopped  any  embarrassing  inquiry 
from  his  friend  by  dropping  off  the  wagon  with  his 
equipment  as  they  entered  it,  and  hurriedly  saying 
"Good-by"  from  a  crossroad  through  the  woods.  He  had 
learned  that  the  nearest  mining  camp  was  five  miles 
away,  and  its  direction  was  indicated  by  a  long  wooden 
"flume,"  or  water-way,  that  alternately  appeared  and  dis 
appeared  on  the  flank  of  the  mountain  opposite.  The 
cooler  and  drier  air,  the  grateful  shadow  of  pine  and 
bay,  and  the  spicy  balsamic  odors  that  everywhere 
greeted  him,  thrilled  and  exhilarated  him.  The  trail 
plunging  sometimes  into  an  undisturbed  forest,  he  started 
the  birds  before  him  like  a  flight  of  arrows  through  its 
dim  recesses;  at  times  he  hung  breathlessly  over  the 
blue  depths  of  canons  where  the  same  forests  were  re 
peated  a  thousand  feet  below.  Towards  noon  he  struck 
into  a  rude  road — evidently  the  thoroughfare  of  the 
locality — and  was  surprised  to  find  that  it,  as  well  as  the 
adjacent  soil  wherever  disturbed,  was  a  deep  Indian  red. 
Everywhere,  along  its  sides,  powdering  the  banks  and 
boles  of  trees  with  its  ruddy  stain,  in  mounds  and 
hillocks  of  piled  dirt  on  the  road,  or  in  liquid  paint-like 
pools,  when  a  trickling  stream  had  formed  a  gutter  across 
it,  there  was  always  the  same  deep  sanguinary  color. 
Once  or  twice  it  became  more  vivid  in  contrast  with  the 
white  teeth  of  quartz  that  peeped  through  it  from  the 
hillside  or  crossed  the  road  in  crumbled  strata.  One  of 
those  pieces  Clarence  picked  up  with  a  quickening  pulse. 
It  was  veined  and  streaked  with  shining  mica  and  tiny 
glittering  cubes  of  mineral  that  looked  like  gold ! 

The  road  now  began  to  descend  towards  a  winding 
stream,  shrunken  by  drought  and  ditching,  that  glared 
dazzingly  in  the  sunlight  from  its  white  bars  of  sand, 
or  glistened  in  shining  sheets  and  channels.  Along 
its  banks,  and  even  encroaching  upon  its  bed,  were  scat 
tered  a  few  mud  cabins,  strange-looking  wooden  troughs 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  229 

and  gutters,  and  here  and  there,  glancing  through  the 
leaves,  the  white  canvas  of  tents.  The  stumps  of  felled 
trees  and  blackened  spaces,  as  of  recent  fires,  marked  the 
stream  on  either  side.  A  sudden  sense  of  disappoint 
ment  overcame  Clarence.  It  looked  vulgar,  -common, 
and  worse  than  all — familiar.  It  was  like  the  unlovely 
outskirts  of  a  dozen  other  prosaic  settlements  he  had 
seen  in  less  romantic  localities.  In  that  muddy  red 
stream,  pouring  out  of  a  wooden  gutter,  in  which  three 
or  four  bearded,  slouching,  half-naked  figures  were  rak 
ing  like  chiffonniers,  there  was  nothing  to  suggest  the 
royal  metal.  Yet  he  was  so  absorbed  in  gazing  at  the 
scene,  and  had  walked  so  rapidly  during  the  past  few 
minutes,  that  he  was  startled,  on  turning  a  sharp  corner 
of  the  road,  to  come  abruptly  upon  an  outlying  dwelling. 

It  was  a  nondescript  building,  half  canvas  and  half 
boards.  The  interior  seen  through  the  open  door  was 
fitted  up  with  side  shelves,  a  counter  carelessly  piled  with 
provisions,  groceries,  clothing,  and  hardware — with  no  at 
tempt  at  display  or  even  ordinary  selection — and  a  table, 
on  which  stood  a  demijohn  and  three  or  four  dirty  glasses. 
Two  roughly  dressed  men,  whose  long,  matted  beards  and 
hair  left  only  their  eyes  and  lips  visible  in  the  tangled 
hirsute  wilderness  below  their  slouched  hats,  were  lean 
ing  against  the  opposite  sides  of  the  doorway,  smoking. 
Almost  thrown  against  them  in  the  rapid  momentum  of 
his  descent,  Clarence  halted  violently. 

"Well,  sonny,  you  needn't  capsize  the  shanty,"  said 
the  first  man,  without  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips. 

"If  yer  looking  fur  yer  ma,  she  and  yer  Aunt  Jane 
hev  jest  gone  over  to  Parson  Doolittle's  to  take  tea," 
observed  the  second  man  lazily.  "She  allowed  that  you'd 
wait." 

"I'm — I'm — going  to — to  the  mines,"  explained  Clar 
ence,  with  some  hesitation.  "I  suppose  this  is  the  way." 

The  two  men  took  their  pipes  from  their  lips,  looked 
at  each  other,  completely  wiped  every  vestige  of  ex 
pression  from  their  faces  with  the  back  of  their  hands, 
turned  their  eyes  into  the  interior  of  the  cabin,  and  said, 
"Will  yer  come  yer,  now  will  yer?"  Thus  adjured,  half 


230  A  WAIF  OP  THE  PLAINS 

a  dozen  men,  also  bearded  and  carrying  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  straggled  out  of  the  shanty,  and,  filing  in  front 
of  it,  squatted  down,  with  their  backs  against  the 
boards,  and  gazed  comfortably  at  the  boy.  Clarence 
began  to  feel  uneasy. 

"I'll  give,"  said  one,  taking  out  his  pipe  and  grimly 
eying  Clarence,  "a  hundred  dollars  for  him  as  he 
stands." 

"And  seein'  as  he's  got  that  bran-new  rig-out  o'  tools," 
said  another,  "I'll  give  a  hundred  and  fifty — and  the 
drinks.  I've  been,"  he  added  apologetically,  "wantin' 
sunthin'  like  this  a  long  time." 

"Well,  gen'lemen,"  said  the  man  who  had  first  spoken 
to  him,  "lookin'  at  him  by  and  large;  takin'  in,  so  to 
speak,  the  gin'ral  gait  of  him  in  single  harness;  bearin' 
in  mind  the  perfect  freshness  of  him,  and  the  coolness 
and  size  of  his  cheek — the  easy  downyness,  previousness, 
and  utter  don't-care-a-damnativeness  of  his  coming  yer, 
I  think  two  hundred  ain't  too  much  for  him,  and  we'll 
call  it  a  bargain." 

Clarence's  previous  experience  of  this  grim,  smileless 
Californian  chaff  was  not  calculated  to  restore  his  con 
fidence.  He  drew  away  from  the  cabin,  and  repeated 
doggedly,  "I  asked  you  if  this  was  the  way  to  the 
mines." 

"It  are  the  mines,  and  these  yere  are  the  miners," 
said  the  first  speaker  gravely.  "Permit  me  to  interdoose 
'em.  This  yere's  Shasta  Jim,  this  yere's  Shotcard  Billy, 
this  is  Nasty  Bob,  and  this  Slumgullion  Dick.  This 
yere's  the  Dook  o'  Chatham  Street,  the  Livin'  Skeleton, 
and  me!" 

"May  we  ask,  fair  young  sir,"  said  the  Living  Skele 
ton,  who,  however,  seemed  in  fairly  robust  condition, 
"whence  came  ye  on  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and 
whose  Marble  Halls  ye  hev  left  desolate?" 

"I  came  across  the  plains,  and  got  into  Stockton  two 
days  ago  on  Mr.  Peyton's  train,"  said  Clarence,  indig 
nantly,  seeing  no  reason  now  to  conceal  anything.  "I 
came  to  Sacramento  to  find  my  cousin,  who  isn't  living 
there  any  more.  I  don't  see  anything  funny  in  that! 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  231 

I  came  here  to  the  mines  to  dig  gold — because — because 
Mr.  Silsbee,  the  man  who  was  to  bring  me  here  and 
might  have  found  my  cousin  for  me,  was  killed  by  In 
dians." 

"Hold  up,  sonny.  Let  me  help  ye,"  said  the  first 
speaker,  rising  to  his  feet.  "You  didn't  get  killed  by 
Injins  because  you  got  lost  out  of  a  train  with  Silsbee's 
infant  darter.  Peyton  picked  you  up  while  you  was 
takin'  care  of  her,  and  two  days  arter  you  kem  up  to 
the  broken-down  Silsbee  wagons,  with  all  the  folks  lyin' 
there  slartered." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  breathlessly  with  astonish 
ment. 

"And,"  continued  the  man,  putting  his  hand  gravely 
to  his  head  as  if  to  assist  his  memory,  "when  you  was 
all  alone  on  the  plains  with  that  little  child  you  saw  one 
of  those  redskins,  as  near  to  you  as  I  be,  watchin' 
the  train,  and  you  didn't  breathe  or  move  while  he  was 
there?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Clarence  eagerly. 

"And  you  was  shot  at  by  Peyton,  he  thinkin'  you  was 
an  Injun  in  the  mesquite  grass?  And  you  once  shot  a 
buffalo  that  had  been  pitched  with  you  down  a  gully — 
all  by  yourself?" 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence,  crimson  with  wonder  and  pleas 
ure.  "You  know  me,  then?" 

"Well,  ye-e-es,"  said  the  man  gravely,  parting  his 
mustache  with  his  fingers.  "You  see,  you've  been  here 
before." 

"Before!    Me?"  repeated  the  astounded  Clarence. 

"Yes,  before.  Last  night.  You  was  taller  then,  and 
hadn't  cut  your  hair.  You  cursed  a  good  deal  more  than 
you  do  now.  You  drank  a  man's  share  of  whiskey,  and 
you  borrowed  fifty  dollars  to  get  to  Sacramento  with. 
I  reckon  you  haven't  got  it  about  you  now,  eh  ?" 

Clarence's  brain  reeled  in  utter  confusion  and  hopeless 
terror. 

Was  he  going  crazy,  or  had  these  cruel  men  learned 
his  story  from  his  faithless  friends,  and  this  was  a  part 
of  the  plot  ?  He  staggered  forward,  but  the  men  had  risen 


232  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

and  quickly  encircled  him,  as  if  to  prevent  his  escape.  In 
vague  and  helpless  desperation  he  gasped — 

"What  place  is  this?" 

"Folks  call  it  Deadman's  Gulch." 

Deadman's  Gulch !  A  flash  of  intelligence  lit  up  the 
boy's  blind  confusion.  Deadman's  Gulch !  Could  it  have 
been  Jim  Hooker  who  had  really  run  away,  and  had  taken 
his  name?  He  turned  half-imploringly  to  the  first  speaker. 

"Wasn't  he  older  than  me,  and  bigger?  Didn't  he  have 
a  smooth,  round  face  and  little  eyes?  Didn't  he  talk 
hoarse?  Didn't  he — "  He  stopped  hopelessly. 

"Yes;  oh,  he  wasn't  a  bit  like  you,"  said  the  man 
musingly.  "Ye  see,  that's  the  h — 11  of  it!  You're  alto 
gether  too  many  and  too  various  fur  this  camp." 

"I  don't  know  who's  been  here  before,  or  what  they 
have  said,"  said  Clarence  desperately,  yet  even  in  that 
desperation  retaining  the  dogged  loyalty  to  his  old  play 
mate,  which  was  part  of  his  nature.  "I  don't  know,  and 
I  don't  care — there !  I'm  Clarence  Brant  of  Kentucky ; 
I  started  in  Silsbee's  train  from  St.  Jo,  and  I'm  going 
to  the  mines,  and  you  can't  stop  me !" 

The  man  who  had  first  spoken  started,  looked  keenly  at 
Clarence,  and  then  turned  to  the  others.  The  gentleman 
known  as  the  living  skeleton  had  obtruded  his  huge 
bulk  in  front  of  the  boy,  and,  gazing  at  him,  said  reflec 
tively,  "Darned  if  it  don't  look  like  one  of  Brant's  pups — 
sure !" 

"Air  ye  any  relation  to  Kernel  Hamilton  Brant  of 
Looeyville  ?"  asked  the  first  speaker. 

Again  that  old  question!  Poor  Clarence  hesitated, 
despairingly.  Was  he  to  go  through  the  same  cross- 
examination  he  had  undergone  with  the  Peytons  ?  "Yes," 
he  said  doggedly,  "I  am — but  he's  dead,  and  you  know  it." 

"Dead— of  course."  "Sartin."  "He's  dead."  "The 
Kernel's  planted,"  said  the  men  in  chorus. 

"Well,  yes,"  reflected  the  Living  Skeleton  ostenta 
tiously,  as  one  who  spoke  from  experience.  "Ham  Brant's 
about  as  bony  now  as  they  make  'em." 

"You  bet !  About  the  dustiest,  deadest  corpse  you  kin 
turn  out,"  corroborated  Slumgullion  Dick,  nodding  his 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  233 

head  gloomily  to  the  others ;  "in  point  o'  fack,  es  a  corpse, 
about  the  last  one  I  should  keer  to  go  huntin'  fur." 

"The  Kernel's  tech  'ud  be  cold  and  clammy,"  concluded 
the  Duke  of  Chatham  Street,  who  had  not  yet  spoken, 
"sure.  But  what  did  yer  mammy  say  about  it?  Is  she 
gettin'  married  agin?  Did  she  send  ye  here?" 

It  seemed  to  Clarence  that  the  Duke  of  Chatham  Street 
here  received  a  kick  from  his  companions;  but  the  boy 
repeated  doggedly —  , 

"I  came  to  Sacramento  to  find  my  cousin,  Jackson 
Brant;  but  he  wasn't  there." 

"Jackson  Brant!"  echoed  the  first  speaker,  glancing 
at  the  others.  "Did  your  mother  say  he  was  your 
cousin  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence  wearily.     "Good-by." 

"Hullo,  sonny,  where  are  you  going?" 

"To  dig  gold,"  said  the  boy.  "And  you  know  you 
can't  prevent  me,  if  it  isn't  on  your  claim.  I  know  the 
law."  He  had  heard  Mr.  Peyton  discuss  it  at  Stockton, 
and  he  fancied  that  the  men,  who  were  whispering  among 
themselves,  looked  kinder  than  before,  and  as  if  they  were 
no  longer  "acting"  to  him.  The  first  speaker  laid  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  "All  right,  come  with  me,  and 
I'll  show  you  where  to  dig." 

"Who  are  you?"  said  Clarence.  "You  called  yourself 
only  'me.'  " 

"Well,  you  can  call  me  Flynn — Tom  Flynn." 

"And  you'll  show  me  where  I  can  dig — myself?" 

"I  will." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Clarence  timidly,  yet  with  a  half- 
conscious  smile,  "that  I — I  kinder  bring  luck?" 

The  man  looked  down  upon  him,  and  said  gravely, 
but,  as  it  struck  Clarence,  with  a  new  kind  of  gravity, 
"I  believe  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence  eagerly,  as  they  walked  along 
together,  "I  brought  luck  to  a  man  in  Sacramento  the 
other  day."  And  he  related  with  great  earnestness  his 
experience  in  the  gambling  saloon.  Not  content  with 
that — the  sealed  fountains  of  his  childish  deep  being 
broken  up  by  some  mysterious  sympathy — he  spoke  of  his 


234  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

hospitable  exploit  with  the  passengers  at  the  wayside  bar, 
of  the  finding  of  his  Fortunatus  purse  and  his  deposit  at 
the  bank.  Whether  that  characteristic  old-fashioned  reti 
cence  which  had  been  such  an  important  factor  for  good 
or  ill  in  his  future  had  suddenly  deserted  him,  or  whether 
some  extraordinary  prepossession  in  his  companion  had 
affected  him,  he  did  not  know;  but  by  the  time  the  pair 
had  reached  the  hillside  Flynn  was  in  possession  of  all 
the  boy's  history.  On  one  point  only  was  his  reserve 
unshaken.  Conscious  although  he  was  of  Jim  Hooker's 
duplicity,  he  affected  to  treat  it  as  a  comrade's  joke. 

They  halted  at  last  in  the  middle  of  an  apparently  fer 
tile  hillside.  Clarence  shifted  his  shovel  from  his  shoul 
ders,  unslung  his  pan,  and  looked  at  Flynn.  "Dig  any 
where  here,  where  you  like,"  said  his  companion  carelessly, 
"and  you'll  be  sure  to  find  the  color.  Fill  your  pan  with 
the  dirt,  go  to  that  sluice,  and  let  the  water  run  in  on 
the  top  of  the  pan — workin'  it  round  so,"  he  added,  illus 
trating  a  rotary  motion  with  the  vessel.  "Keep  doing 
that  until  all  the  soil  is  washed  out  of  it,  and  you  have 
only  the  black  sand  at  the  bottom.  Then  work  that  the 
same  way  until  you  see  the  color.  Don't  be  afraid  of 
washing  the  gold  out  of  the  pan — you  couldn't  do  it  if 
you  tried.  There,  I'll  leave  you  here,  and  you  wait  till  I 
come  back."  With  another  grave  nod  and  something  like 
a  smile  in  the  only  visible  part  of  his  bearded  face — his 
eyes — he  strode  rapidly  away. 

Clarence  did  not  lose  time.  Selecting  a  spot  where 
the  grass  was  less  thick,  he  broke  through  the  soil  and 
turned  up  two  or  three  spadefuls  of  red  soil.  When  he 
had  filled  the  pan  and  raised  it  to  his  shoulder,  he  was 
astounded  at  its  weight.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was 
due  to  the  red  precipitate  of  iron  that  gave  it  its  color. 
Staggering  along  with  his  burden  to  the  running  sluice, 
which  looked  like  an  open  wooden  gutter,  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  he  began  to  carefully  carry  out  Flynn's  direc 
tion.  The  first  dip  of  the  pan  in  the  running  water  car 
ried  off  half  the  contents  of  the  pan  in  liquid  paint-iike 
ooze.  For  a  moment  he  gave  way  to  boyish  satisfaction 
in  the  sight  and  touch  of  this  unctuous  solution,  and 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  235 

dabbled  his  fingers  in  it.  A  few  moments  more  of  rinsing 
and  he  came  to  the  sediment  of  fine  black  sand  that  was 
beneath  it.  Another  plunge  and  swilling  of  water  in  the 
pan,  and — could  he  believe  his  eyes ! — a  few  yellow  tiny 
scales,  scarcely  larger  than  pins'  heads,  glittered  among 
the  sand.  He  poured  it  off.  But  his  companion  was 
right;  the  lighter  sand  shifted  from  side  to  side  with  the 
water,  but  the  glittering  points  remained  adhering  by 
their  own  tiny  specific  gravity  to  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  bottom.  It  was  "the  color" — gold! 

Clarence's  heart  seemed  to  give  a  great  leap  within 
him.  A  vision  of  wealth,  of  independence,  of  power, 
sprang  before  his  dazzled  eyes,  and — a  hand  lightly 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

He  started.  In  his  complete  preoccupation  and  excite 
ment,  he  had  not  heard  the  clatter  of  horse-hoofs,  and  to 
his  amazement  Flynn  was  already  beside  him,  mounted, 
and  leading  a  second  horse. 

"You  kin  ride?"  he  said  shortly. 

"Yes,"  stammered  Clarence;  "but — " 

"But — we've  only  got  two  hours  to  reach  Buckeye 
Mills  in  time  to  catch  the  down  stage.  Drop  all  that, 
jump  up,  and  come  with  me !" 

"But  I've  just  found  gold,"  said  the  boy  excitedly. 

"And  I've  just  found  your — cousin.    Come!" 

He  spurred  his  horse  across  Clarence's  scattered  imple 
ments,  half  helped,  half  lifted,  the  boy  into  the  saddle  of 
the  second  horse,  and,  with  a  cut  of  his  riata  over  the 
animal's  haunches,  the  next  moment  they  were  both  gal 
loping  furiously  away. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TORN  suddenly  from  his  prospective  future,  but  too 
much  dominated  by  the  man  beside  him  to  protest,  Clar 
ence  was  silent  until  a  rise  in  the  road,  a  few  minutes 
later,  partly  abated  their  headlong  speed,  and  gave  him 
chance  to  recover  his  breath  and  courage. 

"Where  is  my  cousin?"  he  asked. 


236  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

"In  the  Southern  county,  two  hundred  miles  from 
here." 

"Are  we  going  to  him?" 

"Yes." 

They  rode  furiously  forward  again.  It  was  nearly  half 
an  hour  before  they  came  to  a  longer  ascent.  Clarence 
could  see  that  Flynn  was  from  time  to  time  examining 
him  curiously  under  his  slouched  hat.  This  somewhat 
embarrassed  him,  but  in  his  singular  confidence  in  the 
man  no  distrust  mingled  with  it. 

"Ye  never  saw  your — cousin?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Clarence;  "nor  he  me.  I  don't  think  he 
knew  me  much,  any  way." 

"How  old  mout  ye  be,  Clarence?" 

"Eleven." 

"Well,  as  you're  suthin  of  a  pup" — Clarence  started, 
and  recalled  Peyton's  first  criticism  of  him — "I  reckon  to 
tell  ye  suthin.  Ye  ain't  goin'  to  be  skeert,  or  afeard,  or 
lose  yer  sand,  I  kalkilate,  for  skunkin'  ain't  in  your  breed. 
Well,  wot  ef  I  told  ye  that  thish  yer — thish  yer — cousin  o' 
yours  was  the  biggest  devil  onhung;  that  he'd  just  killed 
a  man,  and  had  to  lite  out  elsewhere,  and  thet's  why  he 
didn't  show  up  in  Sacramento — what  if  I  told  you  that?" 

Clarence  felt  that  this  was  somehow  a  little  too  much. 
He  was  perfectly  truthful,  and  lifting  his  frank  eyes  to 
Flynn,  he  said, 

"I  should  think  you  were  talking  a  good  deal  like  Jim 
Hooker !" 

His  companion  stared,  and  suddenly  reined  up  his 
horse;  then,  bursting  into  a  shout  of  laughter,  he  gal 
loped  ahead,  from  time  to  time  shaking  his  head,  slapping 
his  legs,  and  making  the  dim  woods  ring  with  his  boister 
ous  mirth.  Then  as  suddenly  becoming  thoughtful  again, 
he  rode  on  rapidly  for  half  an  hour,  only  speaking  to 
Clarence  to  urge  him  forward,  and  assisting  his  progress 
by  lashing  the  haunches  of  his  horse.  Luckily,  the  boy 
was  a  good  rider — a  fact  which  Flynn  seemed  to  thor 
oughly  appreciate — or  he  would  have  been  unseated  a 
dozen  times. 

At  last  the  straggling  sheds  of  Buckeye  Mills  came  into 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  237 

softer  purple  view  on  the  opposite  mountain.  Then  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  Clarence's  shoulder  as  he  reined  in  at 
his  side,  Flynn  broke  the  silence. 

"There,  boy,"  he  said,  wiping  the  mirthful  tears  from 
his  eyes.  "I  was  only  f oolin' — only  tryin'  yer  grit !  This 
yer  cousin  I'm  taking  you  to  be  as  quiet  and  soft-spoken 
and  as  old-fashioned  ez  you  be.  Why,  he's  that  wrapped 
up  in  books  and  study  that  he  lives  alone  in  a  big  adobe 
ranchcrie  among  a  lot  o'  Spanish,  and  he  don't  keer  to  see 
his  own  countrymen !  Why,  he's  even  changed  his  name, 
and  calles  himself  Don  Juan  Robinson !  But  he's  very 
rich;  he  owns  three  leagues  of  land  and  heaps  of  cattle 
and  horses,  and,"  glancing  approvingly  at  Clarence's  seat 
in  the  saddle,  "I  reckon  you'll  hev  plenty  of  fun  thar." 

"But,"  hesitated  Clarence,  to  whom  this  proposal 
seemed  only  a  repetition  of  Peyton's  charitable  offer,  "I 
think  I'd  better  stay  here  and  dig  gold — with  you." 

"And  I  think  you'd  better  not,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
gravity  that  was  very  like  a  settled  determination. 

"But  my  cousin  never  came  for  me  to  Sacramento — 
nor  sent,  nor  even  wrote,"  persisted  Clarence  indig 
nantly. 

"Not  to  you,  boy;  but  he  wrote  to  the  man  whom  he 
reckoned  would  bring  you  there — Jack  Silsbee — and  left 
it  in  the  care  of  the  bank.  And  Silsbee,  being  dead,  didn't 
come  for  the  letter ;  and  as  you  didn't  ask  for  it  when  you 
came,  and  didn't  even  mention  Silsbee's  name,  that  same 
letter  was  sent  back  to  your  cousin  through  me,  because 
the  bank  thought  we  knew  his  whereabouts.  It  came  to 
the  gulch  by  an  express  rider,  whilst  you  were  prospectin' 
on  the  hillside.  Rememberin'  your  story,  I  took  the  lib 
erty  of  opening  it,  and  found  out  that  your  cousin  had 
told  Silsbee  to  bring  you  straight  to  him.  So  I'm  only 
doin'  now  what  Silsbee  would  have  done." 

Any  momentary  doubt  or  suspicion  that  might  have 
risen  in  Clarence's  mind  vanished  as  he  met  his  com 
panion's  steady  and  masterful  eye.  Even  his  disappoint 
ment  was  forgotten  in  the  charm  of  this  new-found 
friendship  and  protection.  And  as  its  outset  had  been 
marked  by  an  unusual  burst  of  confidence  on  Clarence's 


238  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

part,  the  boy,  in  his  gratitude,  now  felt  something  of  the 
timid  shyness  of  a  deeper  feeling,  and  once  more  became 
reticent. 

They  were  in  time  to  snatch  a  hasty  meal  at  Buckeye 
Mills  before  the  stage  arrived,  and  Clarence  noticed  that 
his  friend,  despite  his  rough  dress  and  lawless  aspect, 
provoked  a  marked  degree  of  respect  from  those  he  met — 
in  which,  perhaps,  a  wholesome  fear  was  mingled.  It  is 
certain  that  the  two  best  places  in  the  stage  were  given 
up  to  them  without  protest,  and  that  a  careless,  almost 
supercilious  invitation  to  drink  from  Flynn  was  re 
sponded  to  with  singular  alacrity  by  all,  including  even 
two  fastidiously  dressed  and  previously  reserved  passen 
gers.  I  am  afraid  that  Clarence  enjoyed  this  proof  of 
his  friend's  singular  dominance  with  a  boyish  pride,  and, 
conscious  of  the  curious  eyes  of  the  passengers,  directed 
occasionally  to  himself,  was  somewhat  ostentatious  in  his 
familiarity  with  this  bearded  autocrat. 

At  noon  the  next  day  they  left  the  stage  at  a  wayside 
road  station,  and  Flynn  briefly  informed  Clarence  that 
they  must  again  take  horses.  This  at  first  seemed  dificult 
in  that  out-of-the-way  settlement,  where  they  alone  had 
stopped,  but  a  whisper  from  the  driver  in  the  ear  of  the 
station-master  produced  a  couple  of  fiery  mustangs,  with 
the  same  accompaniment  of  cautious  awe  and  mystery. 
For  the  next  two  days  they  traveled  on  horseback,  resting 
by  night  at  the  lodgings  of  one  or  other  of  Flynn's  friends 
in  the  outskirts  of  a  large  town,  where  they  arrived  in 
the  darkness,  and  left  before  day.  To  any  one  more  ex 
perienced  than  the  simple-minded  boy  it  would  have  been 
evident  that  Flynn  was  purposely  avoiding  the  more  trav 
eled  roads  and  conveyances;  and  when  they  changed 
horses  again  the  next  day's  ride  was  through  an  appar 
ently  unbroken  wilderness  of  scattered  wood  and  rolling 
plain.  Yet  to  Clarence,  with  his  pantheistic  reliance  and 
joyous  sympathy  with  nature,  the  change  was  filled  with 
exhilarating  pleasure.  The  vast  seas  of  tossing  wild  oats, 
the  hillside  still  variegated  with  strange  flowers,  the 
virgin  freshness  of  untrodden  woods  and  leafy  aisles, 
whose  floors  of  moss  or  bark  were  undisturbed  by  human 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  239 

footprint,  were  a  keen  delight  and  novelty.  More  than 
this,  his  quick  eye,  trained  perceptions,  and  frontier 
knowledge  now  stood  him  in  good  stead.  His  intuitive 
sense  of  distance,  instincts  of  woodcraft,  and  his  un 
erring  detection  of  those  signs,  landmarks,  and  guide- 
posts  of  nature,  undistinguishable  to  aught  but  birds  and 
beasts  and  some  children,  were  now  of  the  greatest  service 
to  his  less  favored  companion.  In  this  part  of  their 
strange  pilgrimage  it  was  the  boy  who  took  the  lead. 
Flynn,  who  during  the  past  two  days  seemed  to  have 
fallen  into  a  mood  of  watchful  reserve,  nodded  his  ap 
probation.  "This  sort  of  thing's  yer  best  holt,  boy,"  he 
said.  "Men  and  cities  ain't  your  little  game." 

At  the  next  stopping-place  Clarence  had  a  surprise. 
They  had  again  entered  a  town  at  nightfall,  and  lodged 
with  another  friend  of  Flynn's  in  rooms  which  from 
vague  sounds  appeared  to  be  over  a  gambling  saloon. 
Clarence  woke  late  in  the  morning,  and,  descending  into 
the  street  to  mount  for  the  day's  journey,  was  startled 
to  find  that  Flynn  was  not  on  the  other  horse,  but  that  a 
well-dressed  and  handsome  stranger  had  taken  his  place. 
But  a  laugh,  and  the  familiar  command,  "Jump  up,  boy," 
made  him  look  again.  It  was  Flynn,  but  completely 
shaven  of  beard  and  mustache,  closely  clipped  of  hair,  and 
in  a  fastidiously  cut  suit  of  black ! 

"Then  you  didn't  know  me?"  said  Flynn. 
"Not  till  you  spoke,"  replied  Clarence. 
"So  much  the  better,"  said  his  friend  sententiously,  as 
he  put  spurs  to  his  horse.  But  as  they  cantered  through 
the  street,  Clarence,  who  had  already  become  accustomed 
to  the  stranger's  hirsute  adornment,  felt  a  little  more  awe 
of  him.  The  profile  of  the  mouth  and  chin  now  exposed 
to  his  sidelong  glance  was  hard  and  stern,  and  slightly 
saturnine.  Although  unable  at  the  time  to  identify  it 
with  anybody  he  had  ever  known,  it  seemed  to  the  im 
aginative  boy  to  be  vaguely  connected  with  some  sad  ex 
perience.  But  the  eyes  were  thoughtful  and  kindly,  and 
the  boy  later  believed  that  if  he  had  been  more  familiar 
with  the  face  he  would  have  loved  it  better.  For  it  was 
the  last  and  only  day  he  was  to  see  it,  as,  late  that  after- 


240  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

noon,  after  a  dusty  ride  along  more  traveled  highways, 
they  reached  their  journey's  end. 

It  was  a  low-walled  house,  with  red-tiled  roofs  showing 
against  the  dark  green  of  venerable  pear  and  fig  trees, 
and  a  square  court-yard  in  the  centre,  where  they  had 
dismounted.  A  few  words  in  Spanish  from  Flynn  to  one 
of  the  lounging  peons  admitted  them  to  a  wooden  corridor, 
and  thence  to  a  long,  low  room,  which  to  Clarence's  eyes 
seemed  literally  piled  with  books  and  engravings.  Here 
Flynn  hurriedly  bade  him  stay  while  he  sought  the  host  in 
another  part  of  the  building.  But  Clarence  did  not  miss 
him;  indeed,  it  may  be  feared,  he  forgot  even  the  object 
of  their  journey  in  the  new  sensations  that  suddenly 
thronged  upon  him,  and  the  boyish  vista  of  the  future  that 
they  seemed  to  open.  He  was  dazed  and  intoxicated.  He 
had  never  seen  so  many  books  before ;  he  had  never  con 
ceived  of  such  lovely  pictures.  And  yet  in  some  vague 
way  he  thought  he  must  have  dreamt  of  them  at  some  time. 
He  had  mounted  a  chair,  and  was  gazing  spellbound  at 
an  engraving  of  a  sea-fight  when  he  heard  Flynn's  voice. 

His  friend  had  quietly  reentered  the  room,  in  company 
with  an  oldish,  half-foreign-looking  man,  evidently  his 
relation.  With  no  helping  recollection,  with  no  means  of 
comparison  beyond  a  vague  idea  that  his  cousin  might 
look  like  himself,  Clarence  stood  hopelessly  before  him. 
He  had  already  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  have  to 
go  through  the  usual  cross-questioning  in  regard  to  his 
father  and  family;  he  had  even  forlornly  thought  of  in 
venting  some  innocent  details  to  fill  out  his  imperfect  and 
unsatisfactory  recollection.  But,  glancing  up,  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  his  elderly  cousin  was  as  embarrassed 
as  he  was,  Flynn,  as  usual,  masterfully  interposed. 

"Of  course  ye  don't  remember  each  other,  and  thar 
ain't  much  that  either  of  you  knows  about  family  matters, 
I  reckon,"  he  said  grimly;  "and  as  your  cousin  calls  him 
self  Don  Juan  Robinson,"  he  added  to  Clarence,  "it's  just 
as  well  that  you  let  'Jackson  Brant'  slide.  I  know  him 
better  than  you,  but  you'll  get  used  to  him,  and  he  to 
you,  soon  enough.  At  least,  you'd  better,"  he  concluded, 
with  his  singular  gravity. 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  241 

As  he  turned  as  if  to  leave  the  room  with  Clarence's 
embarrassed  relative — much  to  that  gentleman's  apparent 
relief — the  boy  looked  up  at  the  latter  and  said  timidly — 

"May  I  look  at  those  books  ?" 

His  cousin  stopped,  and  glanced  at  him  with  the  first 
expression  of  interest  he  had  shown. 

"Ah,  you  read ;  you  like  books  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence.  As  his  cousin  remained  still 
looking  at  him  thoughtfully,  he  added,  "My  hands  are 
pretty  clean,  but  I  can  wash  them  first,  if  you  like." 

"You  may  look  at  them,"  said  Don  Juan  smilingly; 
"and  as  they  are  old  books  you  can  wash  your  hands  after 
wards."  And,  turning  to  Flynn  suddenly,  with  an  air  of 
relief,  "I  tell  you  what  I'll  do — I'll  teach  him  Spanish !" 

They  left  the  room  together,  and  Clarence  turned  eag 
erly  to  the  shelves.  They  were  old  books,  some  indeed 
very  old,  queerly  bound,  and  worm-eaten.  Some  were  in 
foreign  languages,  but  others  in  clear,  bold  English  type, 
with  quaint  wood-cuts  and  illustrations.  One  seemed  to 
be  a  chronicle  of  battles  and  sieges,  with  pictured  rep 
resentations  of  combatants  spitted  with  arrows,  cleanly 
lopped  off  in  limb,  or  toppled  over  distinctly  by  visible 
cannon-shot.  He  was  deep  in  its  perusal  when  he  heard 
the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  court-yard  and  the 
voice  of  Flynn.  He  ran  to  the  window,  and  was  aston 
ished  to  see  his  friend  already  on  horseback,  taking  leave 
of  his  host. 

For  one  instant  Clarence  felt  one  of  those  sudden  re 
vulsions  of  feeling  common  to  his  age,  but  which  he  had 
always  timidly  hidden  under  dogged  demeanor.  Flynn, 
his  only  friend !  Flynn,  his  only  boyish  confidant ! 
Flynn,  his  latest  hero,  was  going  away  and  forsaking  him 
without  a  word  of  parting !  It  was  true  that  he  had  only 
agreed  to  take  him  to  his  guardian,  but  still  Flynn  need 
not  have  left  him  without  a  word  of  hope  or  encourage 
ment  !  With  any  one  else  Clarence  would  probably  have 
taken  refuge  in  his  usual  Indian  stoicism,  but  the  same 
feeling  that  had  impelled  him  to  offer  Flynn  his  boyish 
confidences  on  their  first  meeting  now  overpowered  him. 
lie  dropped  his  book,  ran  out  into  the  corridor,  and  made 


242  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

his  way  to  the  court-yard,  just  as  Flynn  galloped  out 
from  the  arch. 

But  the  boy  uttered  a  despairing  shout  that  reached  the 
rider.  He  drew  rein,  wheeled,  halted,  and  sat  facing 
Clarence  impatiently.  To  add  to  Clarence's  embarrass 
ment  his  cousin  had  lingered  in  the  corridor,  attracted  by 
the  interruption,  and  a  peon,  lounging  in  the  archway, 
obsequiously  approached  Flynn's  bridle-rein.  But  the 
rider  waved  him  off,  and,  turning  sternly  to  Clarence, 
said : — 

"What's  the  matter  now?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Clarence,  striving  to  keep  back  the  hot 
tears  that  rose  in  his  eyes.  "But  you  were  going  away 
without  saying  'good-by.'  You've  been  very  kind  to  me, 
and — and — I  want  to  thank  you  !" 

A  deep  flush  crossed  Flynn's  face.  Then  glancing  sus 
piciously  towards  the  corridor,  he  said  hurriedly, — 

"Did  he  send  you?" 

"No,  I  came  myself.    I  heard  you  going." 

"All  right.  Good-by."  He  leaned  forward  as  if  about 
to  take  Clarence's  outstretched  hand,  checked  himself 
suddenly  with  a  grim  smile,  and  taking  from  his  pocket 
a  gold  coin  handed  it  to  the  boy. 

Clarence  took  it,  tossed  it  with  a  proud  gesture  to  the 
waiting  peon,  who  caught  it  thankfully,  drew  back  a  step 
from  Flynn,  and  saying,  with  white  cheeks,  "I  only 
wanted  to  say  good-by,"  dropped  his  hot  eyes  to  the 
ground.  But  it  did  not  seem  to  be  his  own  voice  that 
had  spoken,  nor  his  own  self  that  had  prompted  the  act. 

There  was  a  quick  interchange  of  glances  between  the 
departing  guest  and  his  late  host,  in  which  Flynn's  eyes 
flashed  with  an  odd,  admiring  fire,  but  when  Clarence 
raised  his  head  again  he  was  gone.  And  as  the  boy 
turned  back  with  a  broken  heart  towards  the  corridor,  his 
cousin  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Muy  hidalgamente,  Clarence,"  he  said  pleasantly. 
"Yes,  we  shall  make  something  of  you !" 


A   WAIF  OF  THE   PLAINS  243 


CHAPTER  X 

THEN  followed  to  Clarence  three  uneventful  years. 
During  that  interval  he  learnt  that  Jackson  Brant,  or 
Don  Juan  Robinson — for  the  tie  of  kinship  was  the  least 
factor  in  their  relations  to  each  other,  and  after  the  de 
parture  of  Flynn  was  tacitly  ignored  by  both — was  more 
Spanish  than  American.  An  early  residence  in  Lower 
California,  marriage  with  a  rich  Mexican  widow,  whose 
dying  childless  left  him  sole  heir,  and  some  strange  re 
straining  idiosyncrasy  of  temperament  had  quite  dena 
tionalized  him.  A  bookish  recluse,  somewhat  superfas- 
tidious  towards  his  own  countrymen,  the  more  Clarence 
knew  him  the  more  singular  appeared  his  acquaintance 
with  Flynn;  but  as  he  did  not  exhibit  more  communi 
cativeness  on  this  point  than  upon  their  own  kinship, 
Clarence  finally  concluded  that  it  was  due  to  the  dominant 
character  of  his  former  friend,  and  thought  no  more  about 
it.  He  entered  upon  the  new  life  at  El  Refugio  with  no 
disturbing  past.  Quickly  adapting  himself  to  the  lazy 
freedom  of  this  hacienda  existence,  he  spent  the  mornings 
on  horseback  ranging  the  hills  among  his  cousin's  cattle, 
and  the  afternoons  and  evenings  busied  among  his  cousin's 
books  with  equally  lawless  and  undisciplined  independence. 
The  easy-going  Don  Juan,  it  is  true,  attempted  to  make 
good  his  rash  promise  to  teach  the  boy  Spanish,  and 
actually  set  him  a  few  tasks ;  but  in  a  few  weeks  the 
quick-witted  Clarence  acquired  such  a  colloquial  pro 
ficiency  from  his  casual  acquaintance  with  vaqueros  and 
small  traders  that  he  was  glad  to  leave  the  matter  in  his 
young  kinsman's  hands.  Again,  by  one  of  those  illogical 
sequences  which  make  a  lifelong  reputation  depend  upon 
a  single  trivial  act,  Clarence's  social  status  was  settled 
forever  at  El  Refugio  Rancho  by  his  picturesque  diversion 
of  Flynn's  parting  gift.  The  grateful  peon  to  whom  the 
boy  had  scornfully  tossed  the  coin  repeated  the  act,  ges 
ture,  and  spirit  of  the  scene  to  his  companion,  and  Don 
Juan's  unknown  and  youthful  relation  was  at  once  rec 
ognized  as  hijo  de  la  familia,  and  undeniably  a  hidalgo 


244  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

born  and  bred.  But  in  the  more  vivid  imagination  of 
feminine  El  Refugio  the  incident  reached  its  highest 
poetic  form.  "It  is  true,  Mother  of  God,"  said  Chucha 
of  the  Mill;  "it  was  Domingo  who  himself  relates  it  as 
it  were  the  Creed.  When  the  American  escort  had  ar 
rived  with  the  young  gentleman,  this  escort,  look  you, 
being  not  of  the  same  quality,  he  is  departing  again  with 
out  a  word  of  permission.  Comes  to  him  at  this  moment 
my  little  hidalgo.  'You  have  yourself  forgotten  to  take 
from  me  your  demission,'  he  said.  This  escort,  thinking 
to  make  his  peace  with  a  mere  muchacho,  gives  to  him 
a  gold  piece  of  twenty  pesos.  The  little  hidalgo  has 
taken  it  so,  and  with  the  words,  'Ah !  you  would  make  of 
me  your  almoner  to  my  cousin's  people,'  has  given  it  at 
the  moment  to  Domingo,  and  with  a  grace  and  fire  ad 
mirable."  But  it  is  certain  that  Clarence's  singular  sim 
plicity  and  truthfulness,  a  faculty  of  being  picturesquely 
indolent  in  a  way  that  suggested  a  dreamy  abstraction  of 
mind  rather  than  any  vulgar  tendency  to  bodily  ease  and 
comfort,  and  possibly  the  fact  that  he  was  a  good  horse 
man,  made  him  a  popular  hero  at  El  Refugio.  At  the  end 
of  three  years  Don  Juan  found  that  this  inexperienced 
and  apparently  idle  boy  of  fourteen  knew  more  of  the 
practical  ruling  of  the  rancho  than  he  did  himself;  also 
that  this  unlettered  young  rustic  had  devoured  nearly  all 
the  books  in  his  library  with  boyish  recklessness  of  di 
gestion.  He  found,  too,  that  in  spite  of  his  singular  in 
dependence  of  action,  Clarence  was  possessed  of  an 
invincible  loyalty  of  principle,  and  that,  asking  no  senti 
mental  affection,  and  indeed  yielding  none,  he  was,  with 
out  presuming  on  his  relationship,  devoted  to  his  cousin's 
interest.  It  seemed  that  from  being  a  glancing  ray  of 
sunshine  in  the  house,  evasive  but  never  obtrusive,  he 
had  become  a  daily  necessity  of  comfort  and  security  to 
his  benefactor. 

Clarence  was,  however,  astonished,  when,  one  morn 
ing,  Don  Juan,  with  the  same  embarrassed  manner  he  had 
shown  at  their  first  meeting,  suddenly  asked  him,  "what 
business  he  expected  to  follow."  It  seemed  the  more 
singular,  as  the  speaker4  like  most  abstracted  men,  had 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  245 

hitherto  always  studiously  ignored  the  future,  in  their 
daily  intercourse.  Yet  this  might  have  been  either  the 
habit  of  security  or  the  caution  of  doubt.  Whatever  it 
was,  it  was  some  sudden  disturbance  of  Don  Juan's 
equanimity,  as  disconcerting  to  himself  as  it  was  to  Clar 
ence.  So  conscious  was  the  boy  of  this  that,  without 
replying  to  his  cousin's  question,  but  striving  in  vain  to 
recall  some  delinquency  of  his  own,  he  asked,  with  his 
usual  boyish  directness  — 

"Has  anything  happened?  Have  I  done  anything 
wrong?" 

"No,  no,"  returned  Don  Juan  hurriedly.  "But,  you 
see,  it's  time  that  you  should  think  of  your  future — or  at 
least  prepare  for  it.  I  mean  you  ought  to  have  some 
more  regular  education.  You  will  have  to  go  to  school. 
It's  too  bad,"  he  added  fretfully,  with  a  certain  impatient 
forgetfulness  of  Clarence's  presence,  and  as  if  following 
his  own  thought.  "Just  as  you  are  becoming  of  service 
to  me,  and  justifying  your  ridiculous  position  here — and 
all  this  d — — d  nonsense  that's  gone  before — I  mean,  of 
course,  Clarence,"  he  interrupted  himself,  catching  sight 
of  the  boy's  whitening  cheek  and  darkening  eye,  "I  mean, 
you  know — this  ridiculousness  of  my  keeping  you  from 
school  at  your  age,  and  trying  to  teach  you  myself — don't 
you  see." 

"You  think  it  is — ridiculous,"  repeated  Clarence,  with 
dogged  persistency. 

"I  mean  /  am  ridiculous,"  said  Don  Juan  hastily. 
"There !  there !  let's  say  no  more  about  it.  To-morrow 
we'll  ride  over  to  San  Jose  and  see  the  Father  Secretary 
at  the  Jesuits'  College  about  your  entering  at  once.  It's 
a  good  school,  and  you'll  always  be  near  the  rancho !" 
And  so  the  interview  ended. 

I  am  afraid  that  Clarence's  first  idea  was  to  run  away. 
There  are  few  experiences  more  crushing  to  an  ingenuous 
nature  than  the  sudden  revelation  of  the  aspect  in  which 
it  is  regarded  by  others.  The  unfortunate  Clarence, 
conscious  only  of  his  loyalty  to  his  cousin's  interest  and 
what  he  believed  were  the  duties  of  his  position,  awoke 
to  find  that  position  "ridiculous."  In  an  afternoon's 


246  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

gloomy  ride  through  the  lonely  hills,  and  later  in  the 
sleepless  solitude  of  his  room  at  night,  he  concluded  that 
his  cousin  was  right.  He  would  go  to  school ;  he  would 
study  hard — so  hard  that  in  a  little,  a  very  little  while, 
he  could  make  a  living  for  himself.  He  awoke  contented. 
It  was  the  blessing  of  youth  that  this  resolve  and  execu 
tion  seemed  as  one  and  the  same  thing. 

The  next  day  found  him  installed  as  a  pupil  and  boarder 
in  the  college.  Don  Juan's  position  and  Spanish  predilec 
tions  naturally  made  his  relation  acceptable  to  the  faculty ; 
bnt  Clarence  could  not  help  perceiving  that  Father  So- 
briente,  the  Principal,  regarded  him  at  times  with  a 
thoughtful  curiosity  that  made  him  suspect  that  his  cousin 
had  especially  bespoken  that  attention,  and  that  he  occa 
sionally  questioned  him  on  his  antecedents  in  a  way  that 
made  him  dread  a  renewal  of  the  old  questioning  about 
his  progenitor.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  polished,  cultivated 
man;  yet,  in  the  characteristic,  material  criticism  of 
youth,  I  am  afraid  that  Clarence  chiefly  identified  him 
as  a  priest  with  large  hands,  whose  soft  palms  seemed  to 
be  cushioned  with  kindness,  and  whose  equally  large  feet, 
encased  in  extraordinary  shapeless  shoes  of  undyed 
leather,  seemed  to  tread  down  noiselessly — rather  than  to 
ostentatiously  crush — the  obstacles  that  beset  the  path  of 
the  young  student.  In  the  cloistered  galleries  of  the 
court-yard  Clarence  sometimes  felt  himself  borne  down  by 
the  protecting  weight  of  this  paternal  hand ;  in  the  mid 
night  silence  of  the  dormitory  he  fancied  he  was  often 
conscious  of  the  soft  browsing  tread  and  snuffly  muffled 
breathing  of  his  elephantine-footed  mentor. 

His  relations  with  his  school-fellows  were  at  first  far 
from  pleasant.  Whether  they  suspected  favoritism; 
whether  they  resented  that  old  and  unsympathetic  manner 
which  sprang  from  his  habits  of  association  with'  his 
elders;  or  whether  they  rested  their  objections  on  the 
broader  grounds  of  his  being  a  stranger,  I  do  not  know, 
but  they  presently  passed  from  cruel  sneers  to  physical 
opposition.  It  was  then  found  that  this  gentle  and  re 
served  youth  had  retained  certain  objectionable,  rude, 
direct,  rustic  qualities  of  fist  and  foot,  and  that,  violating 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  247 

all  rules  and  disdaining  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
school-boy  warfare,  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  he  simply 
thrashed  a  few  of  his  equals  out  of  hand,  with  or  without 
ceremony,  as  the  occasion  or  the  insult  happened.  In 
this  emergency  one  of  the  seniors  was  selected  to  teach 
this  youthful  savage  his  proper  position.  A  challenge 
was  given,  and  accepted  by  Clarence  with  a  feverish 
alacrity  that  surprised  himself  as  much  as  his  adversary. 
This  was  a  youth  of  eighteen,  his  superior  in  size  and 
skill. 

The  first  blow  bathed  Clarence's  face  in  his  own 
blood.  But  the  sanguinary  chrism,  to  the  alarm  of  the 
spectators,  effected  an  instantaneous  and  unhallowed 
change  in  the  boy.  Instantly  closing  with  his  adversary, 
he  sprang  at  his  throat  like  an  animal,  and  locking  his 
arm  around  his  neck  began  to  strangle  him.  Blind  to  the 
blows  that  rained  upon  him,  he  eventually  bore  his  stag 
gering  enemy  by  sheer  onset  and  surprise  to  the  earth. 
Amidst  the  general  alarm,  the  strength  of  half  a  dozen 
hastily  summoned  teachers  was  necessary  to  unlock  his 
hold.  Even  then  he  struggled  to  renew  the  conflict.  But 
his  adversary  had  disappeared,  and  from  that  day  forward 
Clarence  was  never  again  molested. 

Seated  before  Father  Sobriente  in  the  infirmary,  with 
swollen  and  bandaged  face,  and  eyes  that  still  seemed  to 
see  everything  in  the  murky  light  of  his  own  blood, 
Clarence  felt  the  soft  weight  of  the  father's  hand  upon 
his  knee. 

"My  son,"  said  the  priest  gently,  "you  are  not  of  our 
religion,  or  I  should  claim  as  a  right  to  ask  a  question 
of  your  own  heart  at  this  moment.  But  as  to  a  good 
friend,  Claro,  a  good  friend,"  he  continued,  patting  the 
boy's  knee,  "you  will  tell  me,  old  Father  Sobriente,  frankly 
and  truthfully,  as  is  your  habit,  one  little  thing.  Were 
you  not  afraid?" 

"No,"  said  Clarence  doggedly.  "I'll  lick  him  again 
to-morrow." 

"Softly,  my  son!  It  was  not  of  him  I  speak,  but  of 
something  more  terrible  and  awful.  Were  you  not  afraid 
of — of — "  he  paused,  and  suddenly  darting  his  clear  eyes 


248  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

into  the  very  depths  of  Clarence's  soul,  added — "of 
yourself?" 

The  boy  started,  shuddered,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"So,  so,"  said  the  priest  gently,  "we  have  found  our 
real  enemy.  Good !  Now,  by  the  grace  of  God,  my  little 
warrior,  we  shall  fight  him  and  conquer." 

Whether  Clarence  profited  by  this  lesson,  or  whether 
this  brief  exhibition  of  his  quality  prevented  any  repetition 
of  the  cause,  the  episode  was  soon  forgotten.  As  his 
school-fellows  had  never  been  his  associates  or  confidants, 
it  mattered  little  to  him  whether  they  feared  or  respected 
him,  or  were  hypocritically  obsequious,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  weaker.  His  studies,  at  all  events,  profited  by  this 
lack  of  distraction.  Already  his  two  years  of  desultory 
and  omnivorous  reading  had  given  him  a  facile  familiarity 
with  many  things,  which  left  him  utterly  free  of  the 
timidity,  awkwardness,  or  non-interest  of  a  beginner. 
His  usually  reserved  manner,  which  had  been  lack  of 
expression  rather  than  of  conviction,  had  deceived  his 
tutors.  The  audacity  of  a  mind  that  had  never  been 
dominated  by  others,  and  owed  no  allegiance  to  precedent, 
made  his  merely  superficial  progress  something  marvelous. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year  he  was  a  phenomenal  scholar, 
who  seemed  capable  of  anything.  Nevertheless,  Father 
Sobriente  had  an  interview  with  Don  Juan,  and  as  a 
result  Clarence  was  slightly  kept  back  in  his  studies,  a 
little  more  freedom  from  the  rules  was  conceded  to  him, 
and  he  was  even  encouraged  to  take  some  diversion.  Of 
such  was  the  privilege  to  visit  the  neighboring  town  of 
Santa  Clara  unrestricted  and  unattended.  He  had  always 
been  liberally  furnished  with  pocket-money,  for  which,  in 
his  companionless  state  and  Spartan  habits,  he  had  a 
singular  and  unboyish  contempt.  Nevertheless,  he  always 
appeared  dressed  with  scrupulous  neatness,  and  was  rather 
distinguished-looking  in  his  older  reserve  and  melancholy 
self-reliance. 

Lounging  one  afternoon  along  the  Alameda,  a  leafy 
avenue  set  out  by  the  early  Mission  Fathers  between  the 
village  of  San  Jose  and  the  convent  of  Santa  Clara,  he 
saw  a  double  file  of  young  girls  from  the  convent  ap- 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  249 

preaching,  on  their  usual  promenade.  A  view  of  this  pro 
cession  being  the  fondest  ambition  of  the  San  Jose 
collegian,  and  especially  interdicted  and  circumvented  by 
the  good  Fathers  attending  the  college  excursions,  Clar 
ence  felt  for  it  the  profound  indifference  of  a  boy  who, 
in  the  intermediate  temperate  zone  of  fifteen  years,  thinks 
that  he  is  no  longer  young  and  romantic !  He  was 
passing  them  with  a  careless  glance,  when  a  pair  of 
deep  violet  eyes  caught  his  own  under  the  broad  shade 
of  a  coquettishly  beribboned  hat,  even  as  it  had  once 
looked  at  him  from  the  depths  of  a  calico  sunbonnet. 
Susy !  He  started,  and  would  have  spoken ;  but  with 
a  quick  little  gesture  of  caution  and  a  meaning  glance 
at  the  two  nuns  who  walked  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the 
file,  she  indicated  him  to  follow.  He  did  so  at  a  re 
spectful  distance,  albeit  wondering.  A  little  further  on 
Susy  dropped  her  handkerchief,  and  was  obliged  to  dart 
out  and  run  back  to  the  end  of  the  file  to  recover  it. 
But  she  gave  another  swift  glance  of  her  blue  eyes  as  she 
snatched  it  up  and  demurely  ran  back  to  her  place.  The 
procession  passed  on,  but  when  Clarence  reached  the  spot 
where  she  had  paused  he  saw  a  three-cornered  bit  of  paper 
lying  in  the  grass.  He  was  too  discreet  to  pick  it  up 
while  the  girls  were  still  in  sight,  but  continued  on,  re 
turning  to  it  later.  It  contained  a  few  words  in  a  school 
girl's  hand,  hastily  scrawled  in  pencil :  "Come  to  the 
south  wall  near  the  big  pear-tree  at  six." 

Delighted  as  Clarence  felt,  he  was  at  the  same  time 
embarrassed.  He  could  not  understand  the  necessity  of 
this  mysterious  rendezvous.  He  knew  that  if  she  was  a 
scholar  she  was  under  certain  conventual  restraints;  but 
with  the  privileges  of  his  position  and  friendship  with  his 
teachers,  he  believed  that  Father  Sobriente  would  easily 
procure  him  an  interview  with  this  old  play-fellow,  of 
whom  he  had  often  spoken,  and  who  was,  with  himself, 
the  sole  survivor  of  his  tragical  past.  And  trusted  as  he 
was  by  Sobriente,  there  was  something  in  this  clandestine 
though  innocent  rendezvous  that  went  against  his  loyalty. 
Nevertheless,  he  kept  the  appointment,  and  at  the  stated 
time  was  at  the  south  wall  of  the  convent,  over  which  the 


250  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

gnarled  boughs  of  the  distinguishing  pear-tree  hung. 
Hard  by  in  the  wall  was  a  grated  wicket  door  that  seemed 
unused. 

Would  she  appear  among  the  boughs  or  on  the  edge 
of  the  wall?  Either  would  be  like  the  old  Susy.  But  to 
his  surprise  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  key  turning  in  the 
lock.  The  grated  door  suddenly  swung  on  its  hinges,  and 
Susy  slipped  out.  Grasping  his  hand,  she  said,  "Let's 
run,  Clarence,"  and  before  he  could  reply  she  started  off 
with  him  at  a  rapid  pace.  Down  the  lane  they  flew — 
very  much,  as  it  seemed  to  Clarence's  fancy,  as  they  had 
flown  from  the  old  emigrant  wagon  on  the  prairie,  four 
years  before.  He  glanced  at  the  fluttering,  fairy-like 
figure  beside  him.  She  had  grown  taller  and  more  grace 
ful;  she  was  dressed  in  exquisite  taste,  with  a  minuteness 
of  luxurious  detail  that  bespoke  the  spoilt  child ;  but  there 
was  the  same  prodigal  outburst  of  rippling,  golden  hair 
down  her  back  and  shoulders,  violet  eyes,  capricious  little 
mouth,  and  the  same  delicate  hands  and  feet  he  had 
remembered.  He  would  have  preferred  a  more  deliberate 
survey,  but  with  a  shake  of  her  head  and  an  hysteric  little 
laugh  she  only  said,  "Run,  Clarence,  run,"  and  again 
darted  forward.  Arriving  at  the  cross-street,  they  turned 
the  corner,  and  halted  breathlessly. 

"But  you're  not  running  away  from  school,  Susy,  are 
you?"  said  Clarence  anxiously. 

"Only  a  little  bit.  Just  enough  to  get  ahead  of  the 
other  girls,"  she  said,  rearranging  her  brown  curls  and 
tilted  hat.  "You  see,  Clarence,"  she  condescended  to  ex 
plain,  with  a  sudden  assumption  of  older  superiority, 
"mother's  here  at  the  hotel  all  this  week,  and  I'm  allowed 
to  go  home  every  night,  like  a  day  scholar.  Only  there's 
three  or  four  other  girls  that  go  out  at  the  same  time 
with  me,  and  one  of  the  Sisters,  and  to-day  I  got  ahead 
of  'em  just  to  see  you." 

"But"  began  Clarence. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right;  the  other  girls  knew  it,  and  helped 
me.  They  don't  start  out  for  half  an  hour  yet,  and  they'll 
say  I've  just  run  ahead,  and  when  they  and  the  Sister  get 
to  the  hotel  I'll  be  there  already — don't  you  see?" 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  251 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence  dubiously. 

"And  we'll  go  to  an  ice-cream  saloon  now,  shan't  we? 
There's  a  nice  one  near  the  hotel.  I've  got  some  money," 
she  added  quickly,  as  Clarence  looked  embarrassed. 

"So  have  I,"  said  Clarence,  with  a  faint  accession  of 
color.  "Let's  go!"  She  had  relinquished  his  hand  to 
smooth  out  her  frock,  and  they  were  walking  side  by  side 
at  a  more  moderate  pace.  "But,"  he  continued,  clinging 
to  his  first  idea  with  masculine  persistence,  and  anxious 
to  assure  his  companion  of  his  power,  of  his  position, 
"I'm  in  the  college,  and  Father  Sobriente,  who  knows 
your  lady  superior,  is  a  good  friend  of  mine  and  gives  me 
privileges ;  and — and — when  he  knows  that  you  and  I  used 
to  play  together — why,  he'll  fix  it  that  we  may  see  each 
other  whenever  we  want." 

"Oh,  you  silly!"  said  Susy.     "What! — when  you're — " 

"When  I'm  what?" 

The  young  girl  shot  a  violet  blue  ray  from  under  her 
broad  hat.  "Why — when  we're  grown  up  now?"  Then 
with  a  certain  precision,  "Why,  they're  very  particular 
about  young  gentlemen !  Why,  Clarence,  if  they  sus 
pected  that  you  and  I  were — "  Another  violet  ray  from 
under  the  hat  completed  this  unfinished  sentence. 

Pleased  and  yet  confused,  Clarence  looked  straight 
ahead  with  deepening  color.  "Why,"  continued  Susy, 
"Mary  Rogers,  that  was  walking  with  me,  thought  you 
were  ever  so  old — and  a  distinguished  Spaniard !  And  I," 
she  said  abruptly — "haven't  I  grown?  Tell  me,  Clar 
ence,"  with  her  old  appealing  impatience,  "haven't  I 
grown?  Do  tell  me!" 

"Very  much,"  said  Clarence. 

"And  isn't  this  frock  pretty — it's  only  my  second  best 
— but  I've  a  prettier  one  with  lace  all  down  in  front;  but 
isn't  this  one  pretty,  Clarence,  tell  me?" 

Clarence  thought  the  frock  and  its  fair  owner  perfec 
tion,  and  said  so.  Whereat  Susy,  as  if  suddenly  aware  of 
the  presence  of  passers-by,  assumed  an  air  of  severe  pro 
priety,  dropped  her  hands  by  her  side,  and  with  an  af 
fected  conscientiousness  walked  on,  a  little  further  from 
Clarence's  side,  until  they  reached  the  ice-cream  saloon. 


252  A  WAIF  OP  THE  PLAINS 

"Get  a  table  near  the  back,  Clarence,"  she  said,  in  £ 
confidential  whisper,  "where  they  can't  see  us — and  straw 
berry,  you  know,  for  the  lemon  and  vanilla  here  are  just 
horrid !" 

They  took  their  seats  in  a  kind  of  rustic  arbor  in  the 
rear  of  the  shop,  which  gave  them  the  appearance  of  two 
youthful  but  somewhat  over-dressed  and  over-conscious 
shepherds.  There  was  an  interval  of  slight  awkwardness, 
which  Susy  endeavored  to  displace.  "There  has  been," 
she  remarked,  with  easy  conversational  lightness,  "quite 
an  excitement  about  our  French  teacher  being  changed. 
The  girls  in  our  class  think  it  most  disgraceful." 

And  this  was  all  she  could  say  after  a  separation  of 
four  years !  Clarence  was  desperate,  but  as  yet  idealess 
and  voiceless.  At  last,  with  an  effort  over  his  spoon,  he 
gasped  a  floating  recollection:  "Do  you  still  like  flap 
jacks,  Susy?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  with  a  laugh,  "but  we  don't  have  them 
now." 

"And  Mose"  (a  black  pointer,  who  used  to  yelp  when 
Susy  sang),  "does  he  still  sing  with  you?" 

"Oh,  he's  been  lost  ever  so  long,"  said  Susy  com 
posedly  ;  "but  I've  got  a  Newfoundland  and  a  spaniel  and 
a  black  pony ;"  and  here,  with  a  rapid  inventory  of  her 
other  personal  effects,  she  drifted  into  some  desultory  de 
tails  of  the  devotion  of  her  adopted  parents,  whom  she 
now  readily  spoke  of  as  "papa"  and  "mamma,"  with  evi 
dently  no  disturbing  recollection  of  the  dead.  From 
which  it  appeared  that  the  Peytons  were  very  rich,  and, 
in  addition  to  their  possessions  in  the  lower  country, 
owned  a  rancho  in  Santa  Clara  and  a  house  in  San  Fran 
cisco.  Like  all  children,  her  strongest  impressions  were 
the  most  recent.  In  the  vain  hope  to  lead  her  back  to 
this  material  yesterday,  he  said — 

"You  remember  Jim  Hooker?" 

"Oh,  he  ran  away,  when  you  left.  But  just  think  of  it ! 
The  other  day,  when  papa  and  I  went  into  a  big  restaurant 
in  San  Francisco,  who  should  be  there  waiting  on  the 
table — yes,  Clarence,  a  real  waiter — but  Jim  Hooker ! 
Papa  spoke  to  him;  but  of  course,"  with  a  slight  eleva- 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  253 

tion  of  her  pretty  chin,  "/  couldn't,  you  know;  fancy — a 
waiter !" 

The  story  of  how  Jim  Hooker  had  personated  him 
stopped  short  upon  Clarence's  lips.  He  could  not  bring 
himself  now  to  add  that  revelation  to  the  contempt  of  his 
small  companion,  which,  in  spite  of  its  naivete,  somewhat 
grated  on  his  sensibilities. 

"Clarence,"  she  said,  suddenly  turning  towards  him 
mysteriously,  and  indicating  the  shopman  and  his  as 
sistants,  "I  really  believe  these  people  suspect  us." 

"Of  what?"  said  the  practical  Clarence. 

"Don't  be  silly!    Don't  you  see  how  they  are  staring?" 

Clarence  was  really  unable  to  detect  the  least  curiosity 
on  the  part  of  the  shopman,  or  that  any  one  exhibited  the 
slightest  concern  in  him  or  his  companion.  But  he  felt  a 
return  of  the  embarrassed  pleasure  he  was  conscious  of  a 
moment  before. 

"Then  you're  living  with  your  father?"  said  Susy, 
changing  the  subject. 

"You  mean  my  cousin"  said  Clarence,  smiling.  "You 
know  my  father  died  long  before  I  ever  knew  you." 

"Yes ;  that's  what  you  used  to  say,  Clarence,  but  papa 
says  it  isn't  so."  But  seeing  the  boy's  wondering  eyes 
fixed  on  her  with  a  troubled  expression,  she  added  quickly, 
"Oh,  then,  he  is  your  cousin !" 

"Well,  I  think  I  ought  to  know,"  said  Clarence,  with  a 
smile,  that  was,  however,  far  from  comfortable,  and  a 
quick  return  of  his  old  unpleasant  recollections  of  the 
Peytons.  "Why,  I  was  brought  to  him  by  one  of  his 
friends."  And  Clarence  gave  a  rapid  boyish  summary  of 
his  journey  from  Sacramento,  and  Flynn's  discovery  of 
the  letter  addressed  to  Silsbee.  But  before  he  had  con 
cluded  he  was  conscious  that  Susy  was  by  no  means 
interested  in  these  details,  nor  in  the  least  affected  by  the 
passing  allusion  to  her  dead  father  and  his  relation  to 
Clarence's  misadventures.  With  her  rounded  chin  in  her 
hand,  she  was  slowly  examining  his  face,  with  a  certain 
mischievous  yet  demure  abstraction.  "I  tell  you  what, 
Clarence,"  she  said,  when  he  had  finished,  "you  ought  to 
make  your  cousin  get  you  one  of  those  sombreros,  and  a 


254  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

nice  gold-braided  scrape.  They'd  just  suit  you.  And  then 
— then  you  could  ride  up  and  down  the  Alameda  when  we 
are  going  by." 

"But  I'm  coming  to  see  you  at — at  your  house,  and  at 
the  convent,"  he  said  eagerly.  "Father  Sobriente  and  my 
cousin  will  fix  it  all  right." 

But  Susy  shook  her  head,  with  superior  wisdom.  "No ; 
they  must  never  know  our  secret! — neither  papa  nor 
mamma,  especially  mamma.  And  they  mustn't  know  that 
we've  met  again — after  these  years!"  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  the  deep  significance  which  Susy's  blue  eyes  gave 
to  this  expression.  After  a  pause  she  went  on — 

"No !  We  must  never  meet  again,  Clarence,  unless 
Mary  Rogers  helps.  She  is  my  best,  my  onliest  friend, 
and  older  than  I;  having  had  trouble  herself,  and  being 
expressly  forbidden  to  see  him  again.  You  can  speak  to 
her  about  Suzette — that's  my  name  now ;  I  was  re- 
christened  Suzette  Alexandra  Peyton  by  mamma.  And 
now,  Clarence,"  dropping  her  voice  and  glancing  shyly 
around  the  saloon,  "you  may  kiss  me  just  once  under  my 
hat,  for  good-by."  She  adroitly  slanted  her  broad- 
brimmed  hat  towards  the  front  of  the  shop,  and  in  its 
shadow  advanced  her  fresh  young  cheek  to  Clarence. 

Coloring  and  laughing,  the  boy  pressed  his  lips  to  it 
twice.  Then  Susy  arose,  with  the  faintest  affectation  of 
a  sigh,  shook  out  her  skirt,  drew  on  her  gloves  with  the 
greatest  gravity,  and  saying,  "Don't  follow  me  further 
than  the  door — they're  coming  now,"  walked  with  super 
cilious  dignity  past  the  preoccupied  proprietor  and  waiters 
to  the  entrance.  Here  she  said,  with  marked  civility, 
"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Brant,"  and  tripped  away  towards 
the  hotel.  Clarence  lingered  for  a  moment  to  look  after 
the  lithe  and  elegant  little  figure,  with  its  shining  un 
dulations  of  hair  that  fell  over  the  back  and  shoulders 
of  her  white  frock  like  a  golden  mantle,  and  then  turned 
away  in  the  opposite  direction. 

He  walked  home  in  a  state,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of  ab 
surd  perplexity.  There  were  many  reasons  why  his  en 
counter  with  Susy  should  have  been  of  unmixed  pleasure. 
She  had  remembered  him  of  her  own  free  will,  and,  in 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  255 

spite  of  the  change  in  her  fortune,  had  made  the  first 
advances.  Her  doubts  about  her  future  interviews  had 
affected  him  but  little;  still  less,  I  fear,  did  he  think  of 
the  other  changes  in  her  character  and  disposition,  for 
he  was  of  that  age  when  they  added  only  a  piquancy  and 
fascination  to  her — as  of  one  who,  in  spite  of  her  weak 
ness  of  nature,  was  still  devoted  to  him !  But  he  was 
painfully  conscious  that  this  meeting  had  revived  in  him 
all  the  fears,  vague  uneasiness,  and  sense  of  wrong  that 
had  haunted  his  first  boyhood,  and  which  he  thought  he 
had  buried  at  El  Refugio  four  years  ago.  Susy's  allusion 
to  his  father  and  the  reiteration  of  Peyton's  skepticism 
awoke  in  his  older  intellect  the  first  feeling  of  suspicion 
that  was  compatible  with  his  open  nature.  Was  this  re 
curring  reticence  and  mystery  due  to  any  act  of  his 
father's  ?  But,  looking  back  upon  it  in  after-years,  he  con 
cluded  that  the  incident  of  that  day  was  a  premonition 
rather  than  a  recollection. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  he  reached  the  college  the  Angelus  had  long 
since  rung.  In  the  corridor  he  met  one  of  the  Fathers, 
who,  instead  of  questioning  him,  returned  his  salutation 
with  a  grave  gentleness  that  struck  him.  He  had  turned 
into  Father  Sobriente's  quiet  study  with  the  intention  of 
reporting  himself,  when  he  was  disturbed  to  find  him  in 
consultation  with  three  or  four  of  the  faculty,  who  seemed 
to  be  thrown  into  some  slight  confusion  by  his  entrance. 
Clarence  was  about  to  retire  hurriedly  when  Father 
Sobriente,  breaking  up  the  council  with  a  significant 
glance  at  the  others,  called  him  back.  Confused  and  em 
barrassed,  with  a  dread  of  something  impending,  the  boy 
tried  to  avert  it  by  a  hurried  account  of  his  meeting  with 
Susy,  and  his  hopes  of  Father  Sobriente's  counsel  and 
assistance.  Taking  upon  himself  the  idea  of  suggesting 
Susy's  escapade,  he  confessed  the  fault.  The  old  man 
gazed  into  his  frank  eyes  with  a  thoughtful,  half-com 
passionate  smile.  "I  was  just  thinking  of  giving  you  a 


256  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

holiday  with — with  Don  Juan  Robinson."  The  unusual 
substitution  of  this  final  title  for  the  habitual  "your 
cousin"  struck  Clarence  uneasily.  "But  we  will  speak  of 
that  later.  Sit  down,  my  son;  I  am  not  busy.  We  shall 
talk  a  little.  Father  Pedro  says  you  are  getting  on 
fluently  with  your  translations.  That  is  excellent,  my 
son,  excellent." 

Clarence's  face  beamed  with  relief  and  pleasure.  His 
vague  fears  began  to  dissipate. 

"And  you  translate  even  from  dictation  !  Good !  We 
have  an  hour  to  spare,  and  you  shall  give  to  me  a  speci 
men  of  your  skill.  Eh  ?  Good !  I  will  walk  here  and 
dictate  to  you  in  my  poor  English,  and  you  shall  sit  there 
and  render  it  to  me  in  your  good  Spanish.  Eh?  So  we 
shall  amuse  and  instruct  ourselves." 

Clarence  smiled.  These  sporadic  moments  of  instruc 
tion  and  admonition  were  not  unusual  to  the  good  Father. 
He  cheerfully  seated  himself  at  the  Padre's  table  before  a 
blank  sheet  of  paper,  with  a  pen  in  his  hand.  Father 
Sobriente  paced  the  apartment,  with  his  usual  heavy  but 
noiseless  tread.  To  his  surprise,  the  good  priest,  after  an 
exhaustive  pinch  of  snuff,  blew  his  nose,  and  began,  in 
his  most  lugubrious  style  of  pulpit  exhortation: — 

"It  has  been  written  that  the  sins  of  the  father  shall 
be  visited  upon  the  children,  and  the  unthinking  and 
worldly  have  sought  refuge  from  this  law  by  declaring  it 
harsh  and  cruel.  Miserable  and  blind !  For  do  we  not 
see  that  the  wicked  man,  who  in  the  pride  of  his  power 
and  vainglory  is  willing  to  risk  punishment  to  himself — 
and  believes  it  to  be  courage — must  pause  before  the 
awful  mandate  that  condemns  an  equal  suffering  to  those 
he  loves,  which  he  cannot  withhold  or  suffer  for?  In 
the  spectacle  of  these  innocents  struggling  against  dis 
grace,  perhaps  disease,  poverty,  or  desertion,  what  avails 
his  haughty,  all-defying  spirit?  Let  us  imagine,  Clar 
ence." 

"Sir?"  said  the  literal  Clarence,  pausing  in  his  exercise. 

"I  mean,"  continued  the  priest,  with  a  slight  cough, 
"let  the  thoughtful  man  picture  a  father:  a  desperate, 
self-willed  man,  who  scorned  the  laws  of  God  and  society 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  257 

— keeping  only  faith  with  a  miserable  subterfuge  he  called 
'honor/  and  relying  only  on  his  own  courage  and  his 
knowledge  of  human  weakness.  Imagine  him  cruel  and 
bloody — a  gambler  by  profession,  an  outlaw  among  men, 
an  outcast  from  the  Church ;  voluntarily  abandoning 
friends  and  family, — the  wife  he  should  have  cherished, 
the  son  he  should  have  reared  and  educated — for  the 
gratification  of  his  deadly  passions.  Yet  imagine  that 
man  suddenly  confronted  with  the  thought  of  that  heri 
tage  of  shame  and  disgust  which  he  had  brought  upon  his 
innocent  offspring — to  whom  he  cannot  give  even  his 
own  desperate  recklessness  to  sustain  its  vicarious  suf 
fering.  What  must  be  the  feelings  of  a  parent — " 

"Father  Sobriente,"  said  Clarence  softly. 

To  the  boy's  surprise,  scarcely  had  he  spoken  when  the 
soft  protecting  palm  of  the  priest  was  already  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  the  snuffy  but  kindly  upper  lip,  trembling 
with  some  strange  emotion,  close  beside  his  cheek. 

"What  is  it,  Clarence?"  he  said  hurriedly.  "Speak,  my 
son,  without  fear !  You  would  ask — " 

"I  only  wanted  to  know  if  'padre'  takes  a  masculine 
verb  here,"  replied  Clarence  naively. 

Father  Sobriente  blew  his  nose  violently.  "Truly — 
though  used  for  either  gender,  by  the  context  masculine," 
he  responded  gravely.  "Ah,"  he  added,  leaning  over  Clar 
ence,  and  scanning  his  work  hastily,  "Good,  very  good ! 
And  now,  possibly,"  he  continued,  passing  his  hand  like 
a  damp  sponge  over  his  heated  brow,  "we  shall  reverse 
our  exercise.  I  shall  deliver  to  you  in  Spanish  what  you 
shall  render  back  in  English,  eh  ?  And — let  us  consider — 
we  shall  make  something  more  familiar  and  narra 
tive,  eh?" 

To  this  Clarence,  somewhat  bored  by  these  present  sol 
emn  abstractions,  assented  gladly,  and  took  up  his  pen. 
Father  Sobriente,  resuming  his  noiseless  pacing,  began : 

"On  the  fertile  plains  of  Guadalajara  lived  a  certain 
caballero,  possessed  of  flocks  and  lands,  and  a  wife  and 
son.  But,  being  also  possessed  of  a  fiery  and  roving 
nature,  he  did  not  value  them  as  he  did  perilous  ad 
venture,  feats  of  arms,  and  sanguinary  encounters.  To 

9  v.  2 


258  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

this  may  be  added  riotous  excesses,  gambling  and  drunk 
enness,  which  in  time  decreased  his  patrimony,  even  as  his 
rebellious  and  quarrelsome  spirit  had  alienated  his  family 
and  neighbors.  His  wife,  borne  down  by  shame  and  sor 
row,  died  while  her  son  was  still  an  infant.  In  a  fit  of 
equal  remorse  and  recklessness  the  caballero  married 
again  within  the  year.  But  the  new  wife  was  of  a  temper 
and  bearing  as  bitter  as  her  consort.  Violent  quarrels 
ensued  between  them,  ending  in  the  husband  abandoning 
his  wife  and  son,  and  leaving  St.  Louis — I  should  say 
Guadalajara — for  ever.  Joining  some  adventurers  in  a 
foreign  land,  under  an  assumed  name,  he  pursued  his 
reckless  course,  until,  by  one  or  two  acts  of  outlawry,  he 
made  his  return  to  civilization  impossible.  The  deserted 
wife  and  step-mother  of  his  child  coldly  accepted  the  situ 
ation,  forbidding  his  name  to  be  spoken  again  in  her 
presence,  announced  that  he  was  dead,  and  kept  the 
knowledge  of  his  existence  from  his  own  son,  whom  she 
placed  under  the  charge  of  her  sister.  But  the  sister 
managed  to  secretly  communicate  with  the  outlawed 
father,  and,  under  a  pretext,  arranged  between  them,  of 
sending  the  boy  to  another  relation,  actually  dispatched 
the  innocent  child  to  his  unworthy  parent.  Perhaps 
stirred  by  remorse,  the  infamous  man — " 

"Stop !"  said  Clarence  suddenly. 

He  had  thrown  down  his  pen,  and  was  standing  erect 
and  rigid  before  the  Father. 

"You  are  trying  to  tell  me  something,  Father  Sobri- 
ente,"  he  said,  with  an  effort.  "Speak  out,  I  implore  you. 
I  can  stand  anything  but  this  mystery.  I  am  no  longer  a 
child.  I  have  a  right  to  know  all.  This  that  you  are 
telling  me  is  no  fable — I  see  it  in  your  face,  Father 
Sobriente;  it  is  the  story  of — of — " 

"Your  father,  Clarence !"  said  the  priest,  in  a  trembling 
voice. 

The  boy  drew  back,  with  a  white  face.  "My  father !" 
he  repeated.  "Living,  or  dead?" 

"Living,  when  you  first  left  your  home,"  said  the  old 
man  hurriedly,  seizing  Clarence's  hand,  "for  it  was  he 
who  in  the  name  of  your  cousin  sent  for  you.  Living — 


A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS  259 

yes,  while  you  were  here,  for  it  was  he  who  for  the  past 
three  years  stood  in  the  shadow  of  this  assumed  cousin, 
Don  Juan,  and  at  last  sent  you  to  this  school.  Living, 
Clarence,  yes ;  but  living  under  a  name  and  reputation 
that  would  have  blasted  you !  And  now  dead — dead  in 
Mexico,  shot  as  an  insurgent  and  in  a  still  desperate 
career !  May  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul !" 

"Dead !"  repeated  Clarence,  trembling,  "only  now  ?" 

"The  news  of  the  insurrection  and  his  fate  came  only 
an  hour  since,"  continued  the  Padre  quickly ;  "his  com 
plicity  with  it  and  his  identity  were  known  only  to  Don 
Juan.  He  would  have  spared  you  any  knowledge  of  the 
truth,  even  as  this  dead  man  would ;  but  I  and  my  brothers 
thought  otherwise.  I  have  broken  it  to  you  badly,  my 
son,  but  forgive  me  ?" 

An  hysterical  laugh  broke  from  Clarence  and  the  priest 
recoiled  before  him.  "Forgive  you!  What  was  this  man 
to  me  ?"  he  said,  with  boyish  vehemence.  "He  never 
loved  me!  He  deserted  me;  he  made  my  life  a  lie.  He 
never  sought  me,  came  near  me,  or  stretched  a  hand  to 
me  that  I  could  take?" 

"Hush !  hush !"  said  the  priest,  with  a  horrified  look, 
laying  his  huge  hand  upon  the  boy's  shoulder  and  bearing 
him  down  to  his  seat.  "You  know  not  what  you  say. 
Think — think,  Clarence !  Was  there  none  of  all  those 
who  have  befriended  you — who  were  kind  to  you  in  your 
wanderings — to  whom  your  heart  turned  unconsciously? 
Think,  Clarence !  You  yourself  have  spoken  to  me  of 
such  a  one.  Let  your  heart  speak  again,  for  his  sake — for 
the  sake  of  the  dead." 

A  gentler  light  suffused  the  boy's  eyes,  and  he  started. 
Catching  convulsively  at  his  companion's  sleeve,  he  said 
in  an  eager,  boyish  whisper,  "There  was  one,  a  wicked, 
desperate  man,  whom  they  all  feared — Flynn,  who  brought 
me  from  the  mines.  Yes,  I  thought  that  he  was  my 
cousin's  loyal  friend — more  than  all  the  rest;  and  I  told 
him  everything — all,  that  I  never  told  the  man  I  thought 
my  cousin,  or  anyone,  or  even  you ;  and  I  think,  I  think, 
Father,  I  liked  him  best  of  all.  I  thought  since  it  was 
wrong,"  he  continued,  with  a  trembling  smile,  "for  I  was 


260  A  WAIF  OF  THE  PLAINS 

foolishly  fond  even  of  the  way  the  others  feared  him, 
he  that  I  feared  not,  and  who  was  so  kind  to  me.  Yet  he, 
too,  left  me  without  a  word,  and  when  I  would  have 
followed  him — "  But  the  boy  broke  down,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

"No,  no,"  said  Father  Sobriente,  with  eager  persistence, 
"that  was  his  foolish  pride  to  spare  you  the  knowledge  of 
your  kinship  with  one  so  feared,  and  part  of  the  blind 
and  mistaken  penance  he  had  laid  upon  himself.  For 
even  at  that  moment  of  your  boyish  indignation,  he  never 
was  so  fond  of  you  as  then.  Yes,  my  poor  boy,  this  man, 
to  whom  God  led  your  wandering  feet  at  Deadman's 
Gulch;  the  man  who  brought  you  here,  and  by  some 
secret  hold — I  know  not  what — on  Don  Juan's  past,  per 
suaded  him  to  assume  to  be  your  relation ;  this  man  Flynn, 
this  Jackson  Brant  the  gambler,  this  Hamilton  Brant  the 
outlaw — was  your  father!  Ah,  yes!  Weep  on,  my  son; 
each  tear  of  love  and  forgiveness  from  thee  hath  vicarious 
power  to  wash  away  his  sin." 

With  a  single  sweep  of  his  protecting  hand  he  drew 
Clarence  towards  his  breast,  until  the  boy  slowly  sank 
upon  his  knees  at  his  feet.  Then,  lifting  his  eyes  towards 
the  ceiling,  he  said  softly  in  an  older  tongue,  "And  thou, 
too,  unhappy  and  perturbed  spirit,  rest !" 

It  was  nearly  dawn  when  the  good  Padre  wiped  the  last 
tears  from  Clarence's  clearer  eyes.  "And  now,  my  son," 
he  said,  with  a  gentle  smile,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  "let  us 
not  forget  the  living.  Although  your  step-mother  has, 
through  her  own  act,  no  legal  claim  upon  you,  far  be  it 
from  me  to  indicate  your  attitude  towards  her.  Enough 
that  you  are  independent."  He  turned,  and,  opening  a 
drawer  in  his  secretaire,  took  out  a  bank-book,  and  placed 
it  in  the  hands  of  the  wondering  boy. 

"It  was  his  wish,  Clarence,  that  even  after  his  death 
you  should  never  have  to  prove  your  kinship  to  claim  your 
rights.  Taking  adantage  of  the  boyish  deposit  you  had 
left  with  Mr.  Garden  at  the  bank,  with  his  connivance  and 
in  your  name  he  added  to  it,  month  by  month  and  year 
by  year;  Mr.  Garden  cheerfully  accepting  the  trust  and 


A  WAIF  OF  THE   PLAINS  261 

management  of  the  fund.  The  seed  thus  sown  has  pro 
duced  a  thousandfold,  Clarence,  beyond  all  expectations. 
You  are  not  only  free,  my  son,  but  of  yourself  and  in 
whatever  name  you  choose — your  own  master." 

"I  shall  keep  my  father's  name,"  said  the  boy  simply. 

"Amen  !"  said  Father  Sobriente. 

Here  closes  the  chronicle  of  Clarence  Brant's  boyhood. 
How  he  sustained  his  name  and  independence  in  after 
years,  and  who,  of  those  already  mentioned  in  these  pages, 
helped  him  to  make  or  mar  it,  may  be  a  matter  for  future 
record. 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS 


IN   THE  CARQUINEZ   WOODS 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  sun  was  going  down  on  the  Carquinez  Woods. 
The  few  shafts  of  sunlight  that  had  pierced  their  pillared 
gloom  were  lost  in  unfathomable  depths,  or  splintered 
their  ineffectual  lances  on  the  enormous  trunks  of  the 
redwoods.  For  a  time  the  dull  red  of  their  vast  col 
umns,  and  the  dull  red  of  their  cast-off  bark  which 
matted  the  echoless  aisles,  still  seemed  to  hold  a  faint 
glow  of  the  dying  day.  But  even  this  soon  passed. 
Light  and  color  fled  upwards.  The  dark  interlaced  tree- 
tops,  that  had  all  day  made  an  impenetrable  shade,  broke 
into  fire  here  and  there;  their  lost  spires  glittered,  faded, 
and  went  utterly  out.  A  weird  twilight  that  did  not  come 
from  the  outer  world,  but  seemed  born  of  the  wood  itself, 
slowly  filled  and  possessed  the  aisles.  The  straight,  tall, 
colossal  trunks  rose  dimly  like  columns  of  upward  smoke. 
The  few  fallen  trees  stretched  their  huge  length  into  ob 
scurity,  and  seemed  to  lie  on  shadowy  trestles.  The 
strange  breath  that  filled  these  mysterious  vaults  had 
neither  coldness  nor  moisture;  a  dry,  fragrant  dust  arose 
from  the  noiseless  foot  that  trod  their  bark-strewn  floor; 
the  aisles  might  have  been  tombs,  the  fallen  trees 
enormous  mummies ;  the  silence  the  solitude  of  a  forgotten 
past. 

And  yet  this  silence  was  presently  broken  by  a  recurring 
sound  like  breathing,  interrupted  occasionally  by  inartic 
ulate  and  stertorous  gasps.  It  was  not  the  quick,  panting, 
listening  breath  of  some  stealthy  feline  or  canine  animal, 
but  indicated  a  larger,  slower,  and  more  powerful  organ 
ization,  whose  progress  was  less  watchful  and  guarded, 

265 


266  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

or  as  if  a  fragment  of  one  of  the  fallen  monsters  had 
become  animate.  At  times  this  life  seemed  to  take  visible 
form,  but  as  vaguely,  as  misshapenly,  as  the  phantom  of 
a  nightmare.  Now  it  was  a  square  object  moving  side 
ways,  endways,  with  neither  head  nor  tail  and  scarcely 
visible  feet;  then  an  arched  bulk  rolling  against  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  and  recoiling  again,  or  an  upright 
cylindrical  mass,  but  always  oscillating  and  unsteady, 
and  striking  the  trees  on  either  hand.  The  frequent 
occurrence  of  the  movement  suggested'  the  figures  of 
some  weird  rhythmic  dance  to  music  heard  by  the  shape 
alone.  Suddenly  it  either  became  motionless  or  faded 
away. 

There  was  the  frightened  neighing  of  a  horse,  the  sud 
den  jingling  of  spurs,  a  shout  and  outcry,  and  the  swift 
apparition  of  three  dancing  torches  in  one  of  the  dark 
aisles ;  but  so  intense  was  the  obscurity  that  they  shed  no 
light  on  surrounding  objects,  and  seemed  to  advance  of 
their  own  volition  without  human  guidance,  until  they 
disappeared  suddenly  behind  the  interposing  bulk  of  one 
of  the  largest  trees.  Beyond  its  eighty  feet  of  circum 
ference  the  light  could  not  reach,  and  the  gloom  remained 
inscrutable.  But  the  voices  and  jingling  spurs  were  heard 
distinctly. 

"Blast  the  mare!  She's  shied  off  that  cursed  trail 
again." 

"Ye  ain't  lost  it  again,  hev  ye?"  growled  a  second 
voice. 

"That's  jist  what  I  hev.  And  these  blasted  pine-knots 

don't  give  light  an  inch  beyond  'em.  D d  if  I  don't 

think  they  make  this  cursed  hole  blacker." 

There  was  a  laugh  —  a  woman's  laugh  —  hysterical, 
bitter,  sarcastic,  exasperating.  The  second  speaker,  with 
out  heeding  it,  went  on : — 

"What  in  thunder  skeert  the  hosses?  Did  you  see  or 
hear  anything?" 

"Nothin'.     The  wood  is  like  a  graveyard." 

The  woman's  voice  again  broke  into  a  hoarse,  con 
temptuous  laugh.  The  man  resumed  angrily: — 

"If  you  know  anything,  why  in  h — 11  don't  you  say  so, 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  267 

instead  of  cackling  like  a  d d  squaw  there?  P'raps 

you  reckon  you  ken  find  the  trail  too." 

"Take  this  rope  off  my  wrist,"  said  the  woman's  voice, 
"untie  my  hands,  let  me  down,  and  I'll  find  it."  She 
spoke  quickly  and  with  a  Spanish  accent. 

It  was  the  men's  turn  to  laugh.  "And  give  you  a  show 
to  snatch  that  six-shooter  and  blow  a  hole  through  me,  as 
you  did  to  the  Sheriff  of  Calaveras,  eh  ?  Not  if  this  court 
understands  itself,"  said  the  first  speaker  dryly. 

"Go  to  the  devil,  then,"  she  said  curtly. 

"Not  before  a  lady,"  responded  the  other.  There  was 
another  laugh  from  the  men,  the  spurs  jingled  again,  the 
three  torches  reappeared  from  behind  the  tree,  and  then 
passed  away  in  the  darkness. 

For  a  time  silence  and  immutability  possessed  the 
woods;  the  great  trunks  loomed  upwards,  their  fallen 
brothers  stretched  their  slow  length  into  obscurity.  The 
sound  of  breathing  again  became  audible;  the  shape  re 
appeared  in  the  aisle,  and  recommenced  its  mystic  dance. 
Presently  it  was  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  largest  tree, 
and  to  the  sound  of  breathing  succeeded  a  grating  and 
scratching  of  bark.  Suddenly,  as  if  riven  by  lightning,  a 
flash  broke  from  the  center  of  the  tree-trunk,  lit  up  the 
woods,  and  a  sharp  report  rang  through  it.  After  a 
pause  the  jingling  of  spurs  and  the  dancing  of  torches 
were  revived  from  the  distance. 

"Hallo?" 

No  answer. 

"Who  fired  that  shot?" 

But  there  was  no  reply.  A  slight  veil  of  smoke  passed 
away  to  the  right,  there  was  the  spice  of  gunpowder  in 
the  air,  but  nothing  more. 

The  torches  came  forward  again,  but  this  time  it  could 
be  seen  they  were  held  in  the  hands  of  two  men  and  a 
woman.  The  woman's  hands  were  tied  at  the  wrist  to 
the  horse-hair  reins  of  her  mule,  while  a  riata,  passed 
around  her  waist  and  under  the  mule's  girth,  was  held  by 
one  of  the  men,  who  were  both  armed  with  rifles  and 
revolvers.  Their  frightened  horses  curveted,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  they  could  be  made  to  advance. 


268  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"Ho !  stranger,  what  are  you  shooting  at  ?" 

The  woman  laughed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Look  yonder  at  the  roots  of  the  tree.  You're  a  d d 

smart  man  for  a  sheriff,  ain't  you?" 

The  man  uttered  an  exclamation  and  spurred  his  horse 
forward,  but  the  animal  reared  in  terror.  He  then  sprang 
to  the  ground  and  approached  the  tree.  The  shape  lay 
there,  a  scarcely  distinguishable  bulk. 

"A  grizzly,  by  the  living  Jingo!  Shot  through  the 
heart." 

It  was  true.  The  strange  shape  lit  up  by  the  flaring 
torches  seemed  more  vague,  unearthly,  and  awkward  in 
its  dying  throes,  yet  the  small  shut  eyes,  the  feeble  nose, 
the  ponderous  shoulders,  and  half-human  foot  armed  with 
powerful  claws  were  unmistakable.  The  men  turned  by 
a  common  impulse  and  peered  into  the  remote  recesses  of 
the  wood  again. 

"Hi,  Mister !  come  and  pick  up  your  game.  Hallo 
there !" 

The  challenge  fell  unheeded  on  the  empty  woods. 

"And  yet,"  said  he  whom  the  woman  had  called  the 
sheriff,  "he  can't  be  far  off.  It  was  a  close  shot,  and  the 
bear  hez  dropped  in  his  tracks.  Why,  wot's  this  sticking 
in  his  claws?" 

The  two  men  bent  over  the  animal.  "Why,  it's  sugar, 
brown  sugar — look !"  There  was  no  mistake.  The  huge 
beast's  fore  paws  and  muzzle  were  streaked  with  the  un- 
romantic  household  provision,  and  heightened  the  absurd 
contrast  of  its  incongruous  members.  The  woman,  ap 
parently  indifferent,  had  taken  that  opportunity  to  partly 
free  one  of  her  wrists. 

"If  we  hadn't  been  cavorting  round  this  yer  spot  for 
the  last  half  hour,  I'd  swear  there  was  a  shanty  not  a 
hundred  yards  away,"  said  the  sheriff. 

The  other  man,  without  replying,  remounted  his  horse 
instantly. 

"If  there  is,  and  it's  inhabited  by  a  gentleman  that  kin 
make  centre  shots  like  that  in  the  dark,  and  don't  care  to 
explain  how,  I  reckon  I  won't  disturb  him." 

The  sheriff  was  apparently  of  the  same  opinion,  for  he 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  269 

followed  his  companion's  example,  and  once  more  led  the 
way.  The  spurs  tinkled,  the  torches  danced,  and  the 
cavalcade  slowly  reentered  the  gloom.  In  another  mo 
ment  it  had  disappeared. 

The  wood  sank  again  into  repose,  this  time  disturbed  by 
neither  shape  nor  sound.  What  lower  forms  of  life 
might  have  crept  close  to  its  roots  were  hidden  in  the 
ferns,  or  passed  with  deadened  tread  over  the  bark-strewn 
floor.  Towards  morning  a  coolness  like  dew  fell  from 
above,  with  here  and  there  a  dropping  twig  or  nut,  or  the 
crepitant  awakening  and  stretching-out  of  cramped  and 
weary  branches.  Later  a  dull,  lurid  dawn,  not  unlike  the 
last  evening's  sunset,  filled  the  aisles.  This  faded  again, 
and  a  clear  gray  light,  in  which  every  object  stood  out  in 
sharp  distinctness,  took  its  place.  Morning  was  waiting 
outside  in  all  its  brilliant,  youthful  coloring,  but  only 
entered  as  the  matured  and  sobered  day. 

Seen  in  that  stronger  light,  the  monstrous  tree  near 
which  the  dead  bear  lay  revealed  its  age  in  its  denuded 
and  scarred  trunk,  and  showed  in  its  base  a  deep  cavity, 
a  foot  or  two  from  the  ground,  partly  hidden  by  hanging 
strips  of  bark  which  had  fallen  across  it.  Suddenly  one 
of  these  strips  was  pushed  aside,  and  a  young  man  leaped 
lightly  down. 

But  for  the  rifle  he  carried  and  some  modern  peculiari 
ties  of  dress,  he  was  of  a  grace  so  unusual  and  uncon 
ventional  that  he  might  have  passed  for  a  faun  who  was 
quitting  his  ancestral  home.  He  stepped  to  the  side  of 
the  bear  with  a  light  elastic  movement  that  was  as  unlike 
customary  progression  as  his  face  and  figure  were  unlike 
the  ordinary  types  of  humanity.  Even  as  he  leaned  upon 
his  rifle,  looking  down  at  the  prostrate  animal,  he  un 
consciously  fell  into  an  attitude  that  in  any  other  mortal 
would  have  been  a  pose,  but  with  him  was  the  picturesque 
and  unstudied  relaxation  of  perfect  symmetry. 

"Hallo,  Mister !" 

He  raised  his  head  so  carelessly  and  listlessly  that  he 
did  not  otherwise  change  his  attitude.  Stepping  from 
behind  the  tree,  the  woman  of  the  preceding  night  stood 
before  him.  Her  hands  were  free  except  for  a  thong  of 


270  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

the  riata,  which  was  still  knotted  around  one  wrist,  the 
end  of  the  thong  having  been  torn  or  burnt  away.  Her 
eyes  were  bloodshot,  and  her  hair  hung  over  her 
shoulders  in  one  long  black  braid. 

.  "I  reckoned  all  along  it  was  you  who  shot  the  bear," 
she  said ;  "at  least  some  one  hiding  yer,"  and  she  indi 
cated  the  hollow  tree  with  her  hand.  "It  wasn't  no  chance 
shot."  Observing  that  the  young  man,  either  from  mis 
conception  or  indifference,  did  not  seem  to  comprehend 
her,  she  added,  "We  came  by  here,  last  night,  a  minute 
after  you  fired." 

"Oh,  that  was  you  kicked  up  such  a  row,  was  it?"  said 
the  young  man,  with  a  shade  of  interest. 

"I  reckon,"  said  the  woman,  nodding  her  head,  "and 
them  that  was  with  me." 

"And  who  are  they?" 

"Sheriff  Dunn,  of  Yolo,  and  his  deputy." 

"And  where  are  they  now?" 

"The  deputy — in  h — 11,  I  reckon;  I  don't  know  about 
the  sheriff." 

"I  see,"  said  the  young  man  quietly;  "and  you?" 

"I — got  away,"  she  said  savagely.  But  she  was  taken 
with  a  sudden  nervous  shiver,  which  she  at  once  repressed 
by  tightly  dragging  her  shawl  over  her  shoulders  and 
elbows,  and  folding  her  arms  defiantly. 

"And  you're  going?" 

"To  follow  the  deputy,  may  be,"  she  said  gloomily. 
"But  come,  I  say,  ain't  you  going  to  treat?  It's  cursed 
cold  here." 

"Wait  a  moment."  The  young  man  was  looking  at  her, 
with  his  arched  brows  slightly  knit  and  a  half  smile  of 
curiosity.  "Ain't  you  Teresa  ?" 

She  was  prepared  for  the  question,  but  evidently  was 
not  certain  whether  she  would  reply  defiantly  or  confi 
dently.  After  an  exhaustive  scrutiny  of  his  face  she 
chose  the  latter,  and  said,  "You  can  bet  your  life  on  it, 
Johnny." 

"I  don't  bet,  and  my  name  isn't  Johnny.  Then  you're 
the  woman  who  stabbed  Dick  Curson  over  at  La- 
grange's  ?" 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS  271 

She  became  defiant  again. 

"That's  me,  all  the  time.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
abou:  it?" 

"Nothing.     And  you  used  to  dance  at  the  Alhambra?" 

She  whisked  the  shawl  from  her  shoulders,  held  it  up 
like  a  scarf,  and  made  one  or  two  steps  of  the  sembi- 
cuacia.  There  was  not  the  least  gayety,  recklessness,  or 
spontaneity  in  the  action;  it  was  simply  mechanical 
bravado.  It  was  so  ineffective,  even  upon  her  own  feel 
ings,  that  her  arms  presently  dropped  to  her  side,  and 
she  coughed  embarrassedly.  "Where's  that  whiskey, 
pardner?"  she  asked. 

The  young  man  turned  toward  the  tree  he  had  just 
quitted,  and  without  further  words  assisted  her  to  mount 
to  the  cavity.  It  was  an  irregular-shaped  vaulted  cham 
ber,  pierced  fifty  feet  above  by  a  shaft  or  cylindrical  open 
ing  in  the  decayed  trunk,  which  was  blackened  by  smoke, 
as  if  it  had  served  the  purpose  of  a  chimney.  In  one 
corner  lay  a  bearskin  and  blanket;  at  the  side  were  two 
alcoves  or  indentations,  one  of  which  was  evidently  used 
as  a  table,  and  the  other  as  a  cupboard.  In  another  hol 
low,  near  the  entrance,  lay  a  few  small  sacks  of  flour, 
coffee,  and  sugar,  the  sticky  contents  of  the  latter  still 
strewing  the  floor.  From  this  storehouse  the  young  man 
drew  a  wicker  flask  of  whiskey,  and  handed  it,  with  a  tin 
cup  of  water,  to  the  woman.  She  waved  the  cup  aside, 
placed  the  flask  to  her  lips,  and  drank  the  undiluted  spirit. 
Yet  even  this  was  evidently  bravado,  for  the  water  started 
to  her  eyes,  and  she  could  not  restrain  the  paroxysm  of 
coughing  that  followed. 

"I  reckon  that's  the  kind  that  kills  at  forty  rods,"  she 
said,  with  a  hysterical  laugh.  "But  I  say,  pardner,  you 
look  as  if  you  were  fixed  here  to  stay,"  and  she  stared 
ostentatiously  around  the  chamber.  But  she  had  already 
taken  in  its  minutest  details,  even  to  observing  that  the 
hanging  strips  of  bark  could  be  disposed  so  as  to  com 
pletely  hide  the  entrance. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  replied;  "it  wouldn't  be  very  easy  to 
pull  up  the  stakes  and  move  the  shanty  further  on." 

Seeing  that  either  from  indifference  or  caution  he  had 


272  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

not  accepted  her  meaning,  she  looked  at  him  fixedly,  and 
said, — 

"What  is  your  little  game  ?" 

"Eh?" 

"What  are  you  hiding  for — here,  in  this  tree?" 

"But  I'm  not  hiding." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  come  out  when  they  hailed  you 
last  night?" 

"Because  I  didn't  care  to." 

Teresa  whistled  incredulously.  "All  right — then  i£ 
you're  not  hiding,  I'm  going  to."  As  he  did  not  reply, 
she  went  on:  "If  I  can  keep  out  of  sight  for  a  couple  of 
weeks,  this  thing  will  blow  over  here,  and  I  car.  get 
across  into  Yolo.  I  could  get  a  fair  show  there,  where 
the  boys  know  me.  Just  now  the  trails  are  all  watched, 
but  no  one  would  think  of  lookin'  here." 

"Then  how  did  you  come  to  think  of  it?"  he  asked 
carelessly. 

"Because  I  knew  that  bear  hadn't  gone  far  for  that 
sugar;  because  I  knew  he  hadn't  stole  it  from  a  cache — 
it  was  too  fresh,  and  we'd  have  seen  the  torn-up  earth ; 
because  we  had  passed  no  camp ;  and  because  I  knew 
there  was  no  shanty  here.  And,  besides,"  she  added  in  a 
low  voice,  "maybe  I  was  huntin'  a  hole  myself  to  die  in — 
and  spotted  it  by  instinct." 

There  was  something  in  this  suggestion  of  a  hunted 
animal  that,  unlike  anything  she  had  previously  said  or 
suggested,  was  not  exaggerated,  and  caused  the  young 
man  to  look  at  her  again.  She  was  standing  under  the 
chimney-like  opening,  and  the  light  from  above  illumin 
ated  her  head  and  shoulders.  The  pupils  of  her  eyes  had 
lost  their  feverish  prominence,  and  were  slightly  suffused 
and  softened  as  she  gazed  abstractedly  before  her.  The 
only  vestige  of  her  previous  excitement  was  in  her  left- 
hand  fingers,  which  were  incessantly  twisting  and  turning 
a  diamond  ring  upon  her  right  hand,  but  without  impart 
ing  the  least  animation  to  her  rigid  attitude.  Suddenly, 
as  if  conscious  of  his  scrutiny,  she  stepped  aside  out  of 
the  revealing  light  and  by  a  swift  feminine  instinct 
raised  her  hand  to  her  head  as  if  to  adjust  her  straggling 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  273 

hair.  It  was  only  for  a  moment,  however,  for,  as  if  aware 
of  the  weakness,  she  struggled  to  resume  her  aggressive 
pose. 

"Well,"  she  said.  "Speak  up.  Am  I  goin'  to  stop  here, 
or  have  I  got  to  get  up  and  get  ?" 

"You  can  stay,"  said  the  young  man  quietly;  "but  as 
I've  got  my  provisions  and  ammunition  here,  and  haven't 
any  other  place  to  go  to  just  now,  I  suppose  we'll  have  to 
share  it  together." 

She  glanced  at  him  under  her  eyelids,  and  a  half-bit 
ter,  half-contemptuous  smile  passed  across  her  face.  "All 
right,  old  man,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand,  "it's  a 
go.  We'll  start  in  housekeeping  at  once,  if  you  like." 

"I'll  have  to  come  here  once  or  twice  a  day,"  he  said, 
quite  composedly,  "to  look  after  my  things,  and  get  some 
thing  to  eat;  but  I'll  be  away  most  of  the  time,  and  what 
with  camping  out  under  the  trees  every  night  I  reckon  my 
share  won't  incommode  you." 

She  opened  her  black  eyes  upon  him,  at  this  original 
proposition.  Then  she  looked  down  at  her  torn  dress.  "I 
suppose  this  style  of  thing  ain't  very  fancy,  is  it?"  she 
said,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"I  think  I  know  where  to  beg  or  borrow  a  change  for 
you,  if  you  can't  get  any,"  he  replied  simply. 

She  stared  at  him  again.    "Are  you  a  family  man?" 

"No." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Well,"  she  said,  "you 
can  tell  your  girl  I'm  not  particular  about  its  being  in  the 
latest  fashion." 

There  was  a  slight  flush  on  his  forehead  as  he  turned 
toward  the  little  cupboard,  but  no  tremor  in  his  voice  as 
he  went  on :  "You'll  find  tea  and  coffee  here,  and,  if  you're 
bored,  there's  a  book  or  two.  You  read,  don't  you — I 
mean  English  ?" 

She  nodded,  but  cast  a  look  of  undisguised  contempt 
upon  the  two  worn,  coverless  novels  he  held  out  to  her. 
"You  haven't  got  last  week's  'Sacramento  Union,'  have 
you?  I  hear  they  have  my  case  all  in;  only  them  lying 
reporters  made  it  out  against  me  all  the  time." 
j  "I  don't  see  the  papers,"  he  replied  curtly. 


274  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"They  say  there's  a  picture  of  me  in  the  'Police  Ga 
zette,'  taken  in  the  act,"  and  she  laughed. 

He  looked  a  little  abstracted,  and  turned  as  if  to  go. 
"I  think  you'll  do  well  to  rest  a  while  just  now,  and  keep 
as  close  hid  as  possible  until  afternoon.  The  trail  is  a 
mile  away  at  the  nearest  point,  but  some  one  might  miss 
it  and  stray  over  here.  You're  quite  safe  if  you're  care 
ful,  and  stand  by  the  tree.  You  can  build  a  fire  here," 
he  stepped  under  the  chimney-like  opening,  "without  its 
being  noticed.  Even  the  smoke  is  lost  and  cannot  be  seen 
so  high." 

The  light  from  above  was  falling  on  his  head  and 
shoulders,  as  it  had  on  hers.  She  looked  at  him  intently. 

"You  travel  a  good  deal  on  your  figure,  pardner,  don't 
you?"  she  said,  with  a  certain  admiration  that  was  quite 
sexless  in  its  quality;  "but  I  don't  see  how  you  pick  up  a 
living  by.  it  in  the  Carquinez  Woods.  So  you're  going, 
are  you?  You  might  be  more  sociable.  Good-by." 

"Good-by!"    He  leaped  from  the  opening. 

"I  say  pardner  1" 

He  turned  a  little  impatiently.  She  had  knelt  down  at 
the  entrance,  so  as  to  be  nearer  his  level,  and  was  holding 
out  her  hand.  But  he  did  not  notice  it,  and  she  quietly 
withdrew  it. 

"If  anybody  dropped  in  and  asked  for  you,  what  name 
will  they  say?" 

He  smiled.    "Don't  wait  to  hear." 

"But  suppose  /  wanted  to  sing  out  for  you,  what  will  I 
call  you?" 

He  hesitated.    "Call  me— Lo." 

"Lo,  the  poor  Indian?"1 

"Exactly." 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  the  woman,  Teresa,  that  in  th'e 
young  man's  height,  supple,  yet  erect  carriage,  color,  and 
singular  gravity  of  demeanor  there  was  a  refined,  aborigi 
nal  suggestion.  He  did  not  lock  like  any  Indian  she  had 
ever  seen,  but  rather  as  a  youthful  chief  might  have 
looked.  There  was  a  further  suggestion  in  his  fringed 

1  The  first  word  of  Pope's  familiar  »postrophe  is  humorously  used  in  the 
Far  West  as  a  distinguishing  title  for  the  Indian. 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  275 

buckskin  shirt  and  moccasins;  but  before  she  could  utter 
the  half-sarcastic  comment  that  rose  to  her  lips  he  had 
glided  noiselessly  away,  even  as  an  Indian  might  have 
done. 

She  readjusted  the  slips  of  hanging  bark  with  feminine 
ingenuity,  dispersing  them  so  as  to  completely  hide  the 
entrance.  Yet  this  did  not  darken  the  chamber,  which 
seemed  to  draw  a  purer  and  more  vigorous  light  through 
the  soaring  shaft  that  pierced  the  roof  than  that  which 
came  from  the  dim  woodland  aisles  below.  Nevertheless, 
she  shivered,  and  drawing  her  shawl  closely  around  her 
began  to  collect  some  half-burnt  fragments  of  wood  in 
the  chimney  to  make  a  fire.  But  the  preoccupation  of  her 
thoughts  rendered  this  a  tedious  process,  as  she  would 
from  time  to  time  stop  in  the  middle  of  an  action  and  fall 
into  an  attitude  of  rapt  abstraction,  with  far-off  eyes  and 
rigid  mouth.  When  she  had  at  last  succeeded  in  kindling 
a  fire  and  raising  a  film  of  pale  blue  smoke,  that  seemed 
to  fade  and  dissipate  entirely  before  it  reached  the  top  of 
the  chimney  shaft,  she  crouched  beside  it,  fixed  her  eyes 
on  the  darkest  corner  of  the  cavern,  and  became  mo 
tionless. 

What  did  she  see  through  that  shadow? 

Nothing  at  first  but  a  confused  medley  of  figures  and 
incidents  of  the  preceding  night;  things  to  be  put  away 
and  forgotten;  things  that  would  not  have  happened  but 
for  another  thing — the  thing  before  which  everything 
faded !  A  ball-room ;  the  sounds  of  music ;  the  one  man 
she  had  cared  for  insulting  her  with  the  flaunting  ostenta 
tion  of  his  unfaithfulness;  herself  despised,  put  aside, 
laughed  at,  or  worse,  jilted.  And  then  the  moment  of 
delirium,  when  the  light  danced;  the  one  wild  act  that 
lifted  her,  the  despised  one,  above  them  all — made  her  the 
supreme  figure,  to  be  glanced  at  by  frightened  women, 
stared  at  by  half-startled,  half-admiring  men !  "Yes,"  she 
laughed ;  but  struck  by  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  moved 
twice  round  the  cavern  nervously,  and  then  dropped  again 
into  her  old  position. 

As  they  carried  him  away  he  had  laughed  at  her — like 
a  hound  that  he  was;  he  who  had  praised  her  for  her 


276  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

spirit,  and  incited  her  revenge  against  others;  he  who 
had  taught  her  to  strike  when  she  was  insulted;  and  it 
was  only  fit  he  should  reap  what  he  had  sown.  She  was 
what  he,  what  other  men,  had  made  her.  And  what  was 
she  now  ?  What  had  she  been  once  ? 

She  tried  to  recall  her  childhood:  the  man  and  woman 
who  might  have  been  her  father  and  mother ;  who  fought 
and  wrangled  over  her  precocious  little  life;  abused  or 
caressed  her  as  she  sided  with  either;  and  then  left  her 
with  a  circus  troupe,  where  she  first  tasted  the  power  of 
her  courage,  her  beauty,  and  her  recklessness.  She  re 
membered  those  flashes  of  triumph  that  left  a  fever  in 
her  veins — a  fever  that  when  it  failed  must  be  stimulated 
by  dissipation,  by  anything,  by  everything  that  would 
keep  her  name  a  wonder  in  men's  mouths,  an  envious  fear 
to  women.  She  recalled  her  transfer  to  the  strolling 
players;  her  cheap  pleasures,  and  cheaper  rivalries  and 
hatred — but  always  Teresa !  the  daring  Teresa !  the  reck 
less  Teresa !  audacious  as  a  woman,  invincible  as  a  boy ; 
dancing,  flirting,  fencing,  shooting,  swearing,  drinking, 
smoking,  fighting  Teresa  !  "Oh,  yes ;  she  had  been  loved, 
perhaps — who  knows? — but  always  feared.  Why  should 
she  change  now  ?  Ha,  he  should  see." 

She  had  lashed  herself  in  a  frenzy,  as  was  her  wont, 
with  gestures,  ejaculations,  oaths,  adjurations,  and  pas 
sionate  apostrophes,  but  with  this  strange  and  unexpected 
result.  Heretofore  she  had  always  been  sustained  and 
kept  up  by  an  audience  of  some  kind  or  quality,  if  only 
perhaps  a  humble  companion ;  there  had  always  been 
some  one  she  could  fascinate  or  horrify,  and  she  could 
read  her  power  mirrored  in  their  eyes.  Even  the  half- 
abstracted  indifference  of  her  strange  host  had  been  some 
thing.  But  she  was  alone  now.  Her  words  fell  on  apa 
thetic  solitude ;  she  was  acting  to  viewless  space.  She 
rushed  to  the  opening,  dashed  the  hanging  bark  aside, 
and  leaped  to  the  ground. 

She  ran  forward  wildly  a  few  steps,  and  stopped. 

"Hallo !"  she  cried.    "Look,  'tis  I,  Teresa  !" 

The  profound  silence  remained  unbroken.  Her  shrillest 
tones  were  lost  in  an  echoless  space,  even  as  the  smoke 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  277 

of  her  fire  had  faded  into  pure  ether.  She  stretched  out 
her  clenched  fists  as  if  to  defy  the  pillared  austerities  of 
the  vaults  around  her. 

"Come  and  take  me  if  you  dare !" 

The  challenge  was  unheeded.  If  she  had  thrown  her 
self  violently  against  the  nearest  tree-trunk,  she  could 
not  have  been  stricken  more  breathless  than  she  was  by 
the  compact,  embattled  solitude  that  encompassed  her. 
The  hopelessness  of  impressing  these  cold  and  passive 
vaults  with  her  selfish  passion  filled  her  with  a  vague  fear. 
In  her  rage  of  the  previous  night  she  had  not  seen  the 
wood  in  its  profound  immobility.  Left  alone  with  the 
majesty  of  those  enormous  columns,  she  trembled  and 
turned  faint.  The  silence  of  the  hollow  tree  she  had  just 
quitted  seemed  to  her  less  awful  than  the  crushing  pres 
ence  of  these  mute  and  monstrous  witnesses  of  her  weak 
ness.  Like  a  wounded  quail  with  lowered  crest  and 
trailing  wing,  she  crept  back  to  her  hiding  place. 

Even  then  the  influence  of  the  wood  was  still  upon  her. 
She  picked  up  the  novel  she  had  contemptuously  thrown 
aside,  only  to  let  it  fall  again  in  utter  weariness.  For  a 
moment  her  feminine  curiosity  was  excited  by  the  dis 
covery  of  an  old  book,  in  whose  blank  leaves  were  pressed 
a  variety  of  flowers  and  woodland  grasses.  As  she  could 
not  conceive  that  these  had  been  kept  for  any  but  a 
sentimental  purpose,  she  was  disappointed  to  find  that 
underneath  each  was  a  sentence  in  an  unknown  tongue, 
that  even  to  her  untutored  eye  did  not  appear  to  be  the 
language  of  passion.  Finally  she  rearranged  the  couch 
of  skins  and  blankets,  and,  imparting  to  it  in  three 
clever  shakes  an  entirely  different  character,  lay  down  to 
pursue  her  reveries.  But  nature  asserted  herself,  and  ere 
she  knew  it  she  was  asleep. 

So  intense  and  prolonged  had  been  her  previous  ex 
citement  that,  the  tension  once  relieved,  she  passed  into 
a  slumber  of  exhaustion  so  deep  that  she  seemed  scarce 
to  breathe.  High  noon  succeeded  morning,  the  central 
shaft  received  a  single  ray  of  upper  sunlight,  the  after 
noon  came  and  went,  the  shadows  gathered  below,  the 
sunset  fires  began  to  eat  their  way  through  the  groined 


278  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

roof,  and  she  still  slept.  She  slept  even  when  the  bark 
hangings  of  the  chamber  were  put  aside,  and  the  young 
man  reentered. 

He  laid  down  a  bundle  he  was  carrying  and  softly  ap 
proached  the  sleeper.  For  a  moment  he  was  startled 
from  his  indifference;  she  lay  so  still  and  motionless. 
But  this  was  not  all  that  struck  him ;  the  face  before 
him  was  ho  longer  the  passionate,  haggard  visage  that 
confronted  him  that  morning;  the  feverish  air,  the  burn 
ing  color,  the  strained  muscles  of  mouth  and  brow,  and 
the  staring  eyes  were  gone;  wiped  away,  perhaps,  by  the 
tears  that  still  left  their  traces  on  cheek  and  dark  eyelash. 
It  was  the  face  of  a  handsome  woman  of  thirty,  with  even 
a  suggestion  of  softness  in  the  contour  of  the  cheek  and 
arching  of  her  upper  lip,  no  longer  rigidly  drawn  down  in 
anger,  but  relaxed  by  sleep  on  her  white  teeth. 

With  the  lithe,  soft  tread  that  was  habitual  to  him,  the 
young  man  moved  about,  examining  the  condition  of  the 
little  chamber  and  its  stock  of  provisions  and  necessaries, 
and  withdrew  presently,  to  reappear  as  noiselessly  with  a 
tin  bucket  of  water.  This  done,  he  replenished  the  little 
pile  of  fuel  with  an  armful  of  bark  and  pine  cones,  cast 
an  approving  glance  about  him,  which  included  the 
sleeper,  and  silently  departed. 

It  was  night  when  she  awoke.  She  was  surrounded  by 
a  profound  darkness,  except  where  the  shaft-like  opening 
made  a  nebulous  mist  in  the  corner  of  her  wooden  cavern. 
Providentially  she  struggled  back  to  consciousness  slowly, 
so  that  the  solitude  and  silence  came  upon  her  gradually, 
with  a  growing  realization  of  the  events  of  the  past 
twenty-four  hours,  but  without  a  shock.  She  was  alone 
here,  but  safe  still,  and  every  hour  added  to  her  chances 
of  ultimate  escape.  She  remembered  to  have  seen  a 
candle  among  the  articles  on  the  shelf,  and  she  began  to 
grope  her  way  towards  the  matches.  Suddenly  she 
stopped.  What  was  that  panting? 

Was  it  her  own  breathing,  quickened  with  a  sudden 
nameless  terror?  or  was  there  something  outside?  Her 
heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  while  she  listened.  Yes !  it 
was  a  panting  outside — a  panting  now  increased,  multi- 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  279 

plied,  redoubled,  mixed  with  the  sounds  of  rustling,  tear 
ing,  craunching,  and  occasionally  a  quick,  impatient  snarl. 
She  crept  on  her  hands  and  knees  to  the  opening  and 
looked  out.  At  first  the  ground  seemed  to  be  undulating 
between  her  and  the  opposite  tree.  But  a  second  glance 
showed  her  the  black  and  gray,  bristling,  tossing  backs 
of  tumbling  beasts  of  prey,  charging  the  carcass  of  the 
bear  that  lay  at  its  roots,  or  contesting  for  the  prize  with 
gluttonous,  choked  breath,  sidelong  snarls,  arched  spines, 
and  recurved  tails.  One  of  the  boldest  had  leaped  upon 
a  buttressing  root  of  her  tree  within  a  foot  of  the  open 
ing.  The  excitement,  awe,  and  terror  she  had  undergone 
culminated  in  one  wild,  maddened  scream,  that  seemed  to 
pierce  even  the  cold  depths  of  the  forest,  as  she  dropped 
on  her  face,  with  her  hands  clasped  over  her  eyes  in  an 
agony  of  fear. 

Her  scream  was  answered,  after  a  pause,  by  a  sudden 
volley  of  firebrands  and  sparks  into  the  midst  of  the 
panting,  crowding  pack;  a  few;  smothered  howls  and 
snaps,  and  a  sudden  dispersion  of  the  concourse.  In 
another  moment  the  young  man,  with  a  blazing  brand 
in  either  hand,  leaped  upon  the  body  of  the  bear. 

Teresa  raised  her  head,  uttered  a  hysterical  cry,  slid 
down  the  tree,  flew  wildly  to  his  side,  caught  convulsively 
at  his  sleeve,  and  fell  on  her  knees  beside  him. 

"Save  me !  save  me !"  she  gasped,  in  a  voice  broken  by 
terror.  "Save  me  from  those  hideous  creatures.  No, 
no !"  she  implored,  as  he  endeavored  to  lift  her  to  her 
feet.  "No — let  me  stay  here  close  beside  you.  So," 
clutching  the  fringe  of  his  leather  hunting-shirt,  and 
dragging  herself  on  her  knees  nearer  him — "so — don't 
leave  me,  for  God's  sake !" 

"They  are  gone,"  he  replied,  gazing  down  curiously  at 
her,  as  she  wound  the  fringe  around  her  hand  to 
strengthen  her  hold ;  "they're  only  a  lot  of  cowardly 
coyotes  and  wolves,  that  dare  not  attack  anything  that 
lives  and  can  move." 

The  young  woman  responded  with  a  nervous  shudder. 
"Yes,  that's  it,"  she  whispered,  in  a  broken  voice;  "it's 
only  the  dead  they  want.  Promise  me — swear  to  me,  if 


280  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

I'm  caught,  or  hung,  or  shot,  you  won't  let  me  be  left 
here  to  be  torn  and — ah  !  my  God  !  what's  that  ?" 

She  had  thrown  her  arms  around  his  knees,  completely 
pinioning  him  to  her  frantic  breast.  Something  like  a 
smile  of  disdain  passed  across  his  face  as  he  answered, 
"It's  nothing.  They  will  not  return.  Get  up !" 

Even  in  her  terror  she  saw  the  change  in  his  face. 
"I  know,  I  know !"  she  cried.  "I'm  frightened — but  I 
cannot  bear  it  any  longer.  Hear  me  !  Listen  !  Listen — 
but  don't  move !  I  didn't  mean  to  kill  Curson — no !  I 
swear  to  God,  no !  I  didn't  mean  to  kill  the  sheriff — and 
I  didn't.  I  was  only  bragging — do  you  hear  ?  I  lied !  I 
lied — don't  move,  I  swear  to  God  I  lied.  I've  made  my 
self  out  worse  than  I  was.  I  have.  Only  don't  leave  me 
now — and  if  I  die — and  it's  not  far  off,  may  be — get  me 
away  from  here — and  from  them.  Swear  it!" 

"All  right,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  scarcely  con 
cealed  movement  of  irritation.  "But  get  up  now,  and  go 
back  to  the  cabin." 

"No;  not  there  alone."  Nevertheless,  he  quietly  but 
firmly  released  himself. 

"I  will  stay  here,"  he  replied.  "I  would  have  been 
nearer  to  you,  but  I  thought  it  better  for  your  safety  that 
my  camp-fire  should  be  further  off.  But  I  can  build  it 
here,  and  that  will  keep  the  coyotes  off." 

"Let  me  stay  with  you — beside  you,"  she  said  implor 
ingly. 

She  looked  so  broken,  crushed,  and  spiritless,  so  unlike 
the  woman  of  the  morning  that,  albeit  with  an  ill  grace, 
he  tacitly  consented,  and  turned  away  to  bring  his 
blankets.  But  in  the  next  moment  she  was  at  his  side, 
following  him  like  a  dog,  silent  and  wistful,  and  even 
offering  to  carry  his  burden.  When  he  had  built  the  fire, 
for  which  she  had  collected  the  pine-cones  and  broken 
branches  near  them,  he  sat  down,  folded  his  arms,  and 
leaned  back  against  the  tree  in  reserved  and  deliberate 
silence. 

Humble  and  submissive,  she  did  not  attempt  to 
break  in  upon  a  reverie  she  could  not  help  but  feel  had 
little  kindliness  to  herself.  As  the  fire  snapped  and 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  281 

sparkled,  she  pillowed  her  head  upon  a  root,  and  lay  still 
to  watch  it. 

It  rose  and  fell,  and  dying  away  at  times  to  a  mere 
lurid  glow,  and  again,  agitated  by  some  breath  scarcely 
perceptible  to  them,  quickening  into  a  roaring  flame. 
When  only  the  embers  remained,  a  dead  silence  filled  the 
wood.  Then  the  first  breath  of  morning  moved  the 
tangled  canopy  above,  and  a  dozen  tiny  sprays  and  needles 
detached  from  the  interlocked  boughs  winged  their  soft 
way  noiselessly  to  the  earth.  A  few  fell  upon  the  pros 
trate  woman  like  a  gentle  benediction,  and  she  slept. 
But  even  then,  the  young  man,  looking  down,  saw  that 
the  slender  fingers  were  still  aimlessly  but  rigidly 
twisted  in  the  leather  fringe  of  his  hunting-shirt. 


CHAPTER   II. 

IT  was  a  peculiarity  of  the  Carquinez  Wood  that  it 
stood  apart  and  distinct  in  its  gigantic  individuality. 
Even  where  the  integrity  of  its  own  singular  species  was 
not  entirely  preserved,  it  admitted  no  inferior  trees.  Nor 
was  there  any  diminishing  fringe  on  its  outskirts ;  the 
sentinels  that  guarded  the  few  gateways  of  the  dim  trails 
were  as  monstrous  as  the  serried  ranks  drawn  up  in  the 
heart  of  the  forest.  Consequently,  the  red  highway  that 
skirted  the  eastern  angle  was  bare  and  shadeless,  until  it 
slipped  a  league  off  into  a  watered  valley  and  refreshed 
itself  under  lesser  sycamores  and  willows.  It  was  here 
the  newly  born  city  of  Excelsior,  still  in  its  cradle,  had, 
like  an  infant  Hercules,  strangled  the  serpentine  North 
Fork  of  the  American  river,  and  turned  its  life  current 
into  the  ditches  and  flumes  of  the  Excelsior  mines. 

Newest  of  the  new  houses  that  seemed  to  have  acci 
dentally  formed  its  single,  straggling  street  was  the  res 
idence  of  the  Rev.  Winslow  Wynn,  not  unfrequently 
known  as  "Father  Wynn,"  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist 
church.  The  "pastorage,"  as  it  was  cheerfully  called, 
had  the  glaring  distinction  of  being  built  of  brick,  and 
was,  as  had  been  wickedly  pointed  out  by  idle  scoffers, 


the  only  "fireproof"  structure  in  town.  This  sarcasm 
was  not,  however,  supposed  to  be  particularly  distasteful 
to  "Father  Wynn,"  who  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being 
"hail  fellow,  well  met"  with  the  rough  mining  element, 
who  called  them  by  their  Christian  names,  had  been 
known  to  drink  at  the  bar  of  the  Polka  Saloon  while 
engaged  in  the  conversion  of  a  prominent  citizen,  and 
was  popularly  said  to  have  no  "gospel  starch"  about  him. 
Certain  conscious  outcasts  and  transgressors  were  touched 
at  this  apparent  unbending  of  the  spiritual  authority. 
The  rigid  tenets  of  Father  Wynn's  faith  were  lost  in  the 
supposed  catholicity  of  his  humanity.  "A  preacher  that 
can  jine  a  man  when  he's  histin'  liquor  into  him,  without 
jawin'  about  it,  ought  to  be  allowed  to  wrestle  with  sin 
ners  and  splash  about  in  as  much  cold  water  as  he  likes," 
was  the  criticism  of  one  of  his  converts.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  true  that  Father  Wynn  was  somewhat  loud  and  in 
tolerant  in  his  tolerance.  It  was  true  that  he  was  a 
little  more  rough,  a  little  more  frank,  a  little 
more  hearty,  a  little  more  impulsive  than  his  disci 
ples.  It  was  true  that  often  the  proclamation  of  his 
extreme  liberality  and  brotherly  equality  partook  some 
what  of  an  apology.  It  is  true  that  a  few  who  might  have 
been  most  benefited  by  this  kind  of  gospel  regarded  him 
with  a  singular  disdain.  It  is  true  that  his  liberality  was 
of  an  ornamental,  insinuating  quality,  accompanied  with 
but  little  sacrifice;  his  acceptance  of  a  collection  taken  up 
in  a  gambling  saloon  for  the  rebuilding  of  his  church, 
destroyed  by  fire,  gave  him  a  popularity  large  enough,  it 
must  be  confessed,  to  cover  the  sins  of  the  gamblers 
themselves,  but  it  was  not  proven  that  he  had  ever  organ 
ized  any  form  of  relief.  But  it  was  true  that  local  his 
tory  somehow  accepted  him  as  an  exponent  of  mining 
Christianity,  without  the  least  reference  to  the  opinions 
of  the  Christian  miners  themselves. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Wynn's  liberal  habits  and  opinions  were 
not,  however,  shared  by  his  only  daughter,  a  motherless 
young  lady  of  eighteen.  Nellie  Wynn  was  in  the  eye  of 
Excelsior  an  unapproachable  divinity,  as  inaccessible  and 
cold  as  her  father  was  impulsive  and  familiar.  An  atmos- 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  283 

phere  of  chaste  and  proud  virginity  made  itself  felt  even 
in  the  starched  integrity  of  her  spotless  skirts,  in  her 
neatly  gloved  finger-tips,  in  her  clear  amber  eyes,  in  her 
imperious  red  lips,  in  her  sensitive  nostrils.  Need  it  be 
said  that  the  youth  and  middle  age  of  Excelsior  were 
madly,  because  apparently  hopelessly,  in  love  with  her? 
For  the  rest,  she  had  been  expensively  educated,  was  pro 
foundly  ignorant  in  two  languages,  with  a  trained  misun 
derstanding  of  music  and  painting,  and  a  natural  and 
faultless  taste  in  dress. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Wynn  was  engaged  in  a  characteristic 
hearty  parting  with  one  of  his  latest  converts,  upon  his 
own  doorstep,  with  admirable  al  fresco  effect.  He  had 
just  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Good-by,  good-by, 
Charley,  my  boy,  and  keep  in  the  right  path;  not  up,  or 
down,  or  round  the  gulch,  you  know — ha,  ha! — but 
straight  across  lots  to  the  shining  gate."  He  had  raised 
his  voice  under  the  stimulus  of  a  few  admiring  spectators, 
and  backed  his  convert  playfully  against  the  wall.  "You 
see !  we're  goin'  in  to  win,  you  bet.  Good-by !  I'd  ask 
you  to  step  in  and  have  a  chat,  but  I've  got  my  work  to 
do,  and  so  have  you.  The  gospel  mustn't  keep  us  from 
that,  must  it,  Charley?  Ha,  ha!" 

The  convert  (who  elsewhere  was  a  profane  express 
man,  and  had  become  quite  imbecile  under  Mr.  Wynn's 
active  heartiness  and  brotherly  horse-play  before  spec 
tators)  managed,  however,  to  feebly  stammer  with  a  blush 
something  about  "Miss  Nellie." 

"Ah,  Nellie.  She,  too,  is  at  her  tasks — trimming  her 
lamp — you  know,  the  parable  of  the  wise  virgins,"  con 
tinued  Father  Wynn  hastily,  fearing  that  the  convert 
might  take  the  illustration  literally.  "There,  there  — 
good-by.  Keep  in  the  right  path."  And  with  a  parting 
shove  he  dismissed  Charley  and  entered  his  own  house. 

That  "wise  virgin,"  Nellie,  had  evidently  finished  with 
the  lamp,  and  was  now  going  out  to  meet  the  bridegroom, 
as  she  was  fully  dressed  and  gloved,  and  had  a  pink 
parasol  in  her  hand,  as  her  father  entered  the  sitting- 
room.  His  bluff  heartiness  seemed  to  fade  away  as  he 
removed  his  soft,  broad-brimmed  hat  and  glanced  across 


284  IN    THE    CAEQUINEZ    WOODS 

the  too  fresh-looking  apartment.  There  was  a  smell  of 
•mortar  still  in  the  air,  and  a  faint  suggestion  that  at  any 
moment  green  grass  might  appear  between  the  interstices 
of  the  red-brick  hearth.  The  room,  yielding  a  little  in 
the  point  of  coldness,  seemed  to  share  Miss  Nellie's  fresh 
virginity,  and,  barring  the  pink  parasol,  set  her  off  as  in  a 
vestal's  cell. 

"I  supposed  you  wouldn't  care  to  see  Brace,  the  ex 
pressman,  so  I  got  rid  of  him  at  the  door,"  said  her  father, 
drawing  one  of  the  new  chairs  towards  him  slowly,  and 
sitting  down  carefully,  as  if  it  were  a  hitherto  untried 
experiment. 

Miss  Nellie's  face  took  a  tint  of  interest.  "Then  he 
doesn't  go  with  the  coach  to  Indian  Spring  to-day?" 

"No ;  why  ?" 

"I  thought  of  going  over  myself  to  get  the  Burnham 
girls  to  come  to  choir-meeting,"  replied  Miss  Nellie  care 
lessly,  "and  he  might  have  been  company." 

"He'd  go  now,  if  he  knew  you  were  going,"  said  her 
father;  "but  it's  just  as  well  he  shouldn't  be  needlessly  en 
couraged.  I  rather  think  that  Sheriff  Dunn  is  a  little 
jealous  of  him.  By  the  way,  the  sheriff  is  much  better. 
I  called  to  cheer  him  up  to-day"  (Mr.  Wynn  had  in  fact 
tumultuously  accelerated  the  sick  man's  pulse),  "and  he 
talked  of  you,  as  usual.  In  fact,  he  said  he  had  only 
two  things  to  get  well  for.  One  was  to  catch  and  hang 
that  woman  Teresa,  who  shot  him ;  the  other — can't  you 
guess  the  other  ?"  he  added  archly,  with  a  faint  suggestion 
of  his  other  manner. 

Miss    Nellie    coldly   could   not. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Wynn's  archness  vanished.  "Don't  be 
a  fool,"  he  said  dryly.  "He  wants  to  marry  you,  and  you 
know  it." 

"Most  of  the  men  here  do,"  responded  Miss  Nellie, 
without  the  least  trace  of  coquetry.  "Is  the  wedding  or 
the  hanging  to  take  place  first,  or  together,  so  he  can 
officiate  at  both?" 

"His  share  in  the  Union  Ditch  is  worth  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars,"  continued  her  father;  "and  if  he  isn't 
nominated  for  district  judge  this  fall,  he's  bound  to  go  to 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  285 

the  legislature,  anyway.  I  don't  think  a  girl  with  your 
advantages  and  education  can  afford  to  throw  away  the 
chance  of  shining  in  Sacramento,  San  Francisco,  or,  in 
good  time,  perhaps  even  \Vashington." 

Miss  Nellie's  eyes  did  not  reflect  entire  disapproval  of 
this  suggestion,  although  she  replied  with  something  of 
her  father's  practical  quality. 

"Mr.  Dunn  is  not  out  of  his  bed  yet,  and  they  say 
Teresa's  got  away  to  Arizona,  so  there  isn't  any  partic 
ular  hurry." 

"Perhaps  not;  but  see  here,  Nellie,  I've  some  important 
news  for  you.  You  know  your  young  friend  of  the 
Carquinez  Woods  —  Dorman,  the  botanist,  eh  ?  Well, 
Brace  knows  all  about  him.  And  what  do  you  think 
he  is?" 

Miss  Nellie  took  upon  herself  a  few  extra  degrees  of 
cold,  and  didn't  know. 

"An  Injin!     Yes,  an  out-and-out  Cherokee.     You  see 
he    calls    himself    Dorman — Low    Dorman.     That's    only 
French    for    'Sleeping    Water/    his    Injin    name! — 'Low4 
Dorman.'  " 

"You  mean  'L'Eau  Dormante,'  "  said  Nellie. 

"That's  what  I  said.  The  chief  called  him  'Sleeping 
Water'  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  one  of  them  French 
Canadian  trappers  translated  it  into  French  when  he 
brought  him  to  California  to  school.  But  He's  an  Injin, 
sure.  No  wonder  he  prefers  to  live  in  the  woods." 

"Well?"  said  Nellie. 

"Well,"  echoed  her  father  impatiently,  "he's  an  Injin, 
I  tell  you,  and  you  can't  of  course  have  anything  to  do 
with  him.  He  mustn't  come  here  again." 

"But  you  forget,"  said  Nellie  imperturbably,  "that  it 
was  you  who  invited  him  here,  and  were  so  much  exer 
cised  over  him.  You  remember  you  introduced  him  to 
the  Bishop  and  those  Eastern  clergymen  as  a  magnificent 
specimen  of  a  young  Californian.  You  forget  what  an 
occasion  you  made  of  his  coming  to  church  on  Sunday, 
and  how  you  made  him  come  in  his  buckskin  shirt  and 
walk  down  the  street  with  you  after  service !" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wynn,  hurriedly.. 


286  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"And,"  continued  Nellie  carelessly,  "how  you  made  us 
sing  out  of  the  same  book  'Children  of  our  Father's  Fold,' 
and  how  you  preached  at  him  until  he  actually  got  a 
color !" 

"Yes,"  said  her  father;  "but  it  wasn't  known  then  he 
was  an  Injin,  and  they  are  frightfully  unpopular  with 
those  Southwestern  men  among  whom  we  labor.  Indeed, 
I  am  quite  convinced  that  when  Brace  said  'the  only  good 
Indian  was  a  dead  one'  his  expression,  though  extrava 
gant,  perhaps,  really  voiced  the  sentiments  of  the  ma 
jority.  It  would  be  only  kindness  to  the  unfortunate 
creature  -to  warn  him  from  exposing  himself  to  their  rude 
but  conscientious  antagonism." 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  tell  him,  then,  in  your  own  pop 
ular  way,  which  they  all  seem  to  understand  so  well," 
responded  the  daughter.  Mr.  Wynn  cast  a  quick  glance 
at  her,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  irony  in  her  face — 
nothing  but  a  half-bored  indifference  as  she  walked 
toward  the  window. 

"I  will  go  with  you  to  the  coach-office,"  said  her  father, 
who  generally  gave  these  simple  paternal  duties  the  pro 
nounced  character  of  a  public  Christian  example. 

"It's  hardly  worth  while,"  replied  Miss  Nellie.  "I've  to 
stop  at  the  Watsons',  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  ask  after 
the  baby ;  so  I  shall  go  on  to  the  Crossing  and  pick  up  the 
coach  when  it  passes.  Good-by." 

Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  Nellie  had  departed,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Wynn  proceeded  to  the  coach-office,  and  publicly 
grasping  the  hand  of  Yuba  Bill,  the  driver,  commended  his 
daughter  to  his  care  in  the  name  of  the  universal  brother 
hood  of  man  and  the  Christian  fraternity.  Carried  away 
by  his  heartiness,  he  forgot  his  previous  caution,  and 
confided  to  the  expressman  Miss  Nellie's  regrets  that  she 
was  not  to  have  that  gentleman's  company.  The  result 
was  that  Miss  Nellie  found  the  coach  with  its  passengers 
awaiting  her  with  uplifted  hats  and  wreathed  smiles  at 
the  Crossing,  and  the  box  seat  (from  which  an  un 
fortunate  stranger,  who  had  expensively  paid  for  it,  had 
been  summarily  ejected)  at  her  service  beside  Yuba  Bill, 
who  had  thrown  away  his  cigar  and  donned  a  new  pair 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  287 

of  buckskin  gloves  to  do  her  honor.  But  a  more  serious 
result  to  the  young  beauty  was  the  effect  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Wynn's  confidences  upon  the  impulsive  heart  of  Jack 
Brace,  the  expressman.  It  has  been  already  intimated 
that  it  was  his  "day  off."  Unable  to  summarily  reassume 
his  usual  functions  beside  the  driver  without  some  practi 
cal  reason,  and  ashamed  to  go  so  palpably  as  a  mere 
passenger,  he  was  forced  to  let  the  coach  proceed  without 
him.  Discomfited  for  the  moment,  he  was  not,  however, 
beaten.  He  had  lost  the  blissful  journey  by  her  side, 
which  would  have  been  his  professional  right,  but — she 
was  going  to  Indian  Spring!  could  he  not  anticipate  her 
there?  Might  they  not  meet  in  the  most  accidental  man 
ner?  And  what  might  not  come  from  that  meeting  away 
from  the  prying  eyes  of  their  own  town?  Mr.  Brace  did 
not  hesitate,  but  saddling  his  fleet  Buckskin,  by  the  time 
the  stage-coach  had  passed  the  Crossing  in  the  high-road 
he  had  mounted  the  hill  and  was  dashing  along  the  "cut 
off"  in  the  same  direction,  a  full  mile  in  advance.  Ar 
riving  at  Indian  Spring,  he  left  his  horse  at  a  Mexican 
posada  on  the  confines  of  the  settlement,  and  from  the 
piled  debris  of  a  tunnel  excavation  awaited  the  slow 
arrival  of  the  coach.  On  mature  reflection  he  could  give 
no  reason  why  he  had  not  boldly  awaited  it  at  the  express 
office,  except  a  certain  bashful  consciousness  of  his  own 
folly,  and  a  belief  that  it  might  be  glaringly  apparent  to 
the  bystanders.  When  the  coach  arrived  and  he  had  over 
come  this  consciousness,  it  was  too  late.  Yuba  Bill  had 
discharged  his  passengers  for  Indian  Spring  and  driven 
away.  Miss  Nellie  was  in  the  settlement,  but  where  ?  As 
time  passed  he  became  more  desperate  and  bolder.  He 
walked  recklessly  up  and  down  the  main  street,  glancing 
in  at  the  open  doors  of  shops,  and  even  in  the  windows 
of  private  dwellings.  It  might  have  seemed  a  poor  com 
pliment  to  Miss  Nellie,  but  it  was  an  evidence  of  his 
complete  preoccupation,  when  the  sight  of  a  female  face 
at  a  window,  even  though  it  was  plain  or  perhaps  painted, 
caused  his  heart  to  bound,  or  the  glancing  of  a  skirt  in  the 
distance  quickened  his  feet  and  his  pulses.  Had  Jack 
contented  himself  with  remaining  at  Excelsior  he  might 


288  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

have  vaguely  regretted,  but  as  soon  become  as  vaguely 
accustomed  to,  Miss  Nellie's  absence.  But  it  was  not 
until  his  hitherto  quiet  and  passive  love  took  this  first  step 
of  action  that  it  fully  declared  itself.  When  he  had  made 
the  tour  of  the  town  a  dozen  times  unsuccessfully,  he  had 
perfectly  made  up  his  mind  that  marriage  with  Nellie  or 
the  speedy  death  of  several  people,  including  possibly  him 
self,  was  the  only  alternative.  He  regretted  he  had  not 
accompanied  her ;  he  regretted  he  had  not  demanded  where 
she  was  going;  he  contemplated  a  course  of  future  action 
that  two  hours  ago  would  have  filled  him  with  bashful 
terror.  There  was  clearly  but  one  thing  to  do — to  de 
clare  his  passion  the  instant  he  met  her,  and  return  with 
her  to  Excelsior  an  accepted  suitor,  or  not  to  return  at  all. 

Suddenly  he  was  vexatiously  conscious  of  hearing  his 
name  lazily  called,  and  looking  up  found  that  he  was  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  interrogated  by  two  horse 
men. 

"Got  down  to  walk,  and  the  coach  got  away  from  you, 
Jack,  eh?" 

A  little  ashamed  of  his  preoccupation,  Brace  stam 
mered  something  about  "collections."  He  did  not  recog 
nize  the  men,  but  his  own  face,  name,  and  business  were 
familiar  to  everybody  for  fifty  miles  along  the  stage-road. 

"Well,  you  can  settle  a  bet  for  us,  I  reckon.  Bill 
Dacre  thar  bet  me  five  dollars  and  the  drinks  that  a  young 
gal  we  met  at  the  edge  of  the  Carquinez  Woods,  dressed 
in  a  long  brown  duster  and  half  muffled  up  in  a  hood, 
was  the  daughter  of  Father  Wynn  of  Excelsior.  I  did 
not  get  a  fair  look  at  her,  but  it  stands  to  reason  that  a 
high-toned  young  lady  like  Nellie  Wynn  don't  go  trap'sing 
along  the  wood  like  a  Pike  County  tramp.  I  took  the  bet. 
May  be  you  know  if  she's  here  or  in  Excelsior?" 

Mr.  Brace  felt  himself  turning  pale  with  eagerness  and 
excitement.  But  the  near  prospect  of  seeing  her  presently 
gave  him  back  his  caution,  and  he  answered  truthfully 
that  he  had  left  her  in  Excelsior,  and  that  in  his  two 
hours'  sojourn  in  Indian  Spring  he  had  not  met  her 
once.  "But,"  he  added,  with  a  Californian's  reverence 
for  the  sanctity  of  a  bet,  "I  reckon  you'd  better  make  it 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  289 

a  stand-off  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  I'll  find  out  and  let 
you  know."  Which,  it  is  only  fair  to  say,  he  honestly 
intended  to  do. 

With  a  hurried  nod  of  parting,  he  continued  in  the 
direction  of  the  Woods.  When  he  had  satisfied  himself 
that  the  strangers  had  entered  the  settlement,  and  would 
not  follow  him  for  further  explanation,  he  quickened  his 
pace.  In  half  an  hour  he  passed  between  two  of  the 
gigantic  sentinels  that  guarded  the  entrance  to  a  trail. 
Here  he  paused  to  collect  his  thoughts.  The  Woods  were 
vast  in  extent,  the  trail  dim  and  uncertain — at  times  ap 
parently  breaking  off,  or  intersecting  another  trail  as 
faint  as  itself.  Believing  that  Miss  Nellie  had  diverged 
from  the  highway  only  as  a  momentary  excursion  into 
the  shade,  and  that  she  would  not  dare  to  penetrate  its 
more  sombre  and  unknown  recesses,  he  kept  within  sight 
of  the  skirting  plain.  By  degrees  the  sedate  influence  of 
the  silent  vaults  seemed  to  depress  him.  The  ardor  of 
the  chase  began  to  flag.  Under  the  calm  of  their  dim 
roof  the  fever  of  his  veins  began  to  subside;  his  pace 
slackened ;  he  reasoned  more  deliberately.  It  was  by  no 
means  probable  that  the  young  woman  in  a  brown  duster 
was  Nellie;  it  was  not  her  habitual  traveling  dress;  it 
was  not  like  her  to  walk  unattended  in  the  road;  there 
was  nothing  in  her  tastes  and  habits  to  take  her  into  this 
gloomy  forest,  allowing  that  she  had  even  entered  it; 
and  on  this  absolute  question  of  her  identity  the  two 
witnesses  were  divided.  He  stopped  irresolutely,  and 
cast  a  last,  long,  half-despairing  look  around  him. 
Hitherto  he  had  given  that  part  of  the  wood  nearest  the 
plain  his  greatest  attention.  His  glance  now  sought  its 
darker  recesses.  Suddenly  he  became  breathless.  Was 
it  a  beam  of  sunlight  that  had  pierced  the  groined  roof 
above,  and  now  rested  against  the  trunk  of  one  of  the 
dimmer,  more  secluded  giants?  No,  it  was  moving;  even 
as  he  gazed  it  slipped  away,  glanced  against  another  tree, 
passed  across  one  of  the  vaulted  aisles,  and  then  was  lost 
again.  Brief  as  was  the  glimpse,  he  was  not  mistaken — 
it  was  the  figure  of  a  woman. 

In  another  moment  he  was  on  her  track,  and  soon  had 
10  v.  a 


290  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  reappear  at  a  lesser  distance. 
But  the  continual  intervention  of  the  massive  trunks 
made  the  chase  by  no  means  an  easy  one,  and  as  he  could 
not  keep  her  always  in  sight  he  was  unable  to  follow  or 
understand  the  one  intelligent  direction  which  she  seemed 
to  invariably  keep.  Nevertheless,  he  gained  upon  her 
breathlessly,  and,  thanks  to  the  bark-strewn  floor,  noise 
lessly.  He  was  near  enough  to  distinguish  and  recognize 
the  dress  she  wore,  a  pale  yellow,  that  he  had  admired 
when  he  first  saw  her.  It  was  Nellie,  unmistakably ;  if  it 
were  she  of  the  brown  duster,  she  had  discarded  it,  per 
haps  for  greater  freedom.  He  was  near  enough  to  call 
out  now,  but  a  sudden  nervous  timidity  overcame  him ; 
his  lips  grew  dry.  What  should  he  say  to  her?  How 
account  for  his  presence  ?  "Miss  Nellie,  one  moment !" 
he  gasped.  She  darted  forward  and — vanished. 

At  this  moment  he  was  not  more  than  a  dozen  yards 
from  her.  He  rushed  to  where  she  had  been  standing, 
but  her  disappearance  was  perfect  and  complete.  He 
made  a  circuit  of  the  group  of  trees  within  whose  radius 
she  had  last  appeared,  but  there  was  neither  trace  of  her, 
nor  a  suggestion  of  her  mode  of  escape.  He  called  aloud 
to  her ;  the  vacant  Woods  let  his  helpless  voice  die  in 
their  unresponsive  depths.  He  gazed  into  the  air  and 
down  at  the  bark-strewn  carpet  at  his  feet.  Like  most 
of  his  vocation,  he  was  sparing  of  speech,  and  epigram 
matic  after  his  fashion.  Comprehending  in  one  swift  but 
despairing  flash  of  intelligence  the  existence  of  some  fate 
ful  power  beyond  his  own  weak  endeavor,  he  accepted  its 
logical  result  with  characteristic  grin-mess,  threw  his  hat 
upon  the  ground,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  said — 

"Well,  I'm  d d!" 

CHAPTER  III. 

OUT  of  compliment  to  Miss  Nellie  Wynn,  Yuba  Bill, 
on  reaching  Indian  Spring,  had  made  a  slight  detour  to 
enable  him  to  ostentatiously  set  down  his  fair  passenger 
before  the  door  of  the  Burnhams.  When  it  had  closed 
on  the  admiring  eyes  of  the  passengers  and  the  coach  had 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  291 

rattled  away,  Miss  Nellie,  without  any  undue  haste  or 
apparent  change  in  her  usual  quiet  demeanor,  managed, 
however,  to  dispatch  her  business  promptly,  and,  leaving 
an  impression  that  she  would  call  again  before  her  return 
to  Excelsior,  parted  from  her  friends  and  slipped  away 
through  a  side  street  to  the  General  Furnishing  Store 
of  Indian  Spring.  In  passing  this  emporium,  Miss 
Nellie's  quick  eye  had  discovered  a  cheap  brown  linen 
duster  hanging  in  its  window.  To  purchase  it,  and  put 
it  over  her  delicate  cambric  dress,  albeit  with  a  shivering 
sense  that  she  looked  like  a  badly  folded  brown-paper 
parcel,  did  not  take  long.  As  she  left  the  shop  it  was 
with  mixed  emotions  of  chagrin  and  security  that  she 
noticed  that  her  passage  through  the  settlement  no  longer 
turned  the  heads  of  its  male  inhabitants.  She  reached 
the  outskirts  of  Indian  Spring  and  the  high-road  at  about 
the  time  Mr.  Brace  had  begun  his  fruitless  patrol  of  the 
main  street.  Far  in  the  distance  a  faint  olive-green  table 
mountain  seemed  to  rise  abruptly  from  the  plain.  It  was 
the  Carquinez  Woods.  Gathering  her  spotless  skirts 
beneath  her  extemporized  brown  domino,  she  set  out 
briskly  towards  them. 

But  her  progress  was  scarcely  free  or  exhilarating. 
She  was  not  accustomed  to  walking  in  a  country  where 
"buggy-riding"  was  considered  the  only  genteel  young- 
lady-like  mode  of  progression,  and  its  regular  provision 
the  expected  courtesy  of  mankind.  Always  fastidiously 
booted,  her  low-quartered  shoes  were  charming  to  the  eye, 
but  hardly  adapted  to  the  dust  and  inequalities  of  the  high 
road.  It  was  true  that  she  had  thought  of  buying  a 
coarser  pair  at  Indian  Spring,  but  once  face  to  face  with 
their  uncompromising  ugliness,  she  had  faltered  and  fled. 
The  sun  was  unmistakably  hot,  but  her  parasol  was  too 
well  known  and  offered  too  violent  a  contrast  to  the 
duster  for  practical  use.  Once  she  stopped  with  an  ex 
clamation  of  annoyance,  hesitated,  and  looked  back.  In 
half  an  hour  she  had  twice  lost  her  shoe  and  her  temper; 
a  pink  flush  took  possession  of  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
were  bright  with  suppressed  rage.  Dust  began  to  form 
grimy  circles  around  their  orbits ;  with  cat-like  shivers 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

she  even  felt  it  pervade  the  roots  of  her  blond  hair. 
Gradually  her  breath  grew  more  rapid  and  hysterical,  her 
smarting  eyes  became  humid,  and  at  last,  encountering 
two  observant  horsemen  in  the  road,  she  turned  and  fled, 
until,  reaching  the  wood,  she  began  to  cry. 

Nevertheless  she  waited  for  the  two  horsemen  to  pass, 
to  satisfy  herself  that  she  was  not  followed;  then  pushed 
on  vaguely,  until  she  reached  a  fallen  tree,  where,  with 
a  gesture  of  disgust,  she  tore  off  her  hapless  duster  and 
flung  it  on  the  ground.  She  then  sat  down  sobbing,  but 
after  a  moment  dried  her  eyes  hurriedly  and  started  to 
her  feet.  A  few  paces  distant,  erect,  noiseless,  with  out 
stretched  hand,  the  young  solitary  of  the  Carquinez 
Woods  advanced  towards  her.  His  hand  had  almost 
touched  hers,  when  he  stopped. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  turning  half  away,  and  searching 
the  ground  with  her  eyes,  as  if  she  had  lost  something. 
"Only  I  must  be  going  back  now." 

"You  shall  go  back  at  once,  if  you  wish  it,"  he  said, 
flushing  slightly.  "But  you  have  been  crying;  why?" 

Frank  as  Miss  Nellie  wished  to  be,  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  say  that  her  feet  hurt  her,  and  the  dust  and  heat 
were  ruining  her  complexion.  It  was  therefore  with  a 
half-confident  belief  that  her  troubles  were  really  of  a 
moral  quality  that  she  answered,  "Nothing — nothing,  but 
— but — it's  wrong  to  come  here." 

"But  you  did  not  think  it  was  wrong  when  you  agreed 
to  come,  at  our  last  meeting,"  said  the  young  man,  with 
that  persistent  logic  which  exasperates  the  inconse 
quent  feminine  mind.  "It  cannot  be  any  more  wrong 
to-day." 

"But  it  was  not  so  far  off,"  murmured  the  young  girl, 
without  looking  up. 

"Oh,  the  distance  makes  it  more  improper,  then,"  he 
said  abstractedly ;  but  after  a  moment's  contemplation  of 
her  half-averted  face,  he  asked  gravely,  "Has  anyone 
talked  to  you  about  me?" 

Ten  minutes  before,  Nellie  had  been  burning  to  un- 
burthen  herself  of  her  father's  warning,  but  now  she  felt 


IN   THE    CAftQUINEZ    WOODS  293 

she  would  not.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  yourself  Low," 
she  said  at  last. 

"But  it's  my  name,"  he  replied  quietly. 

"Nonsense !  It's  only  a  stupid  translation  of  a  stupid 
nickname.  They  might  as  well  call  you  'Water'  at  once." 

"But  you  said  you  liked  it." 

"Well,  so  I  do.  But  don't  you  see — I — oh  dear!  you 
don't  understand." 

Low  did  not  reply,  but  turned  his  head  with  resigned 
gravity  towards  the  deeper  woods.  Grasping  the  barrel 
of  his  rifle  with  his  left  hand,  he  threw  his  right  arm 
across  his  left  wrist  and  leaned  slightly  upon  it  with  the 
habitual  ease  of  a  Western  hunter— doubly  picturesque  in 
his  own  lithe,  youthful  symmetry.  Miss  Nellie  looked 
at  him  from  under  her  eyelids,  and  then  half  defiantly 
raised  her  head  and  her  dark  lashes.  Gradually  an  almost 
magical  change  came  over  her  features ;  her  eyes  grew 
larger  and  more  and  more  yearning,  until  they  seemed  to 
draw  and  absorb  in  their  liquid  depths  the  figure  of  the 
young  man  before  her ;  her  cold  face  broke  into  an  ecstasy 
of  light  and  color ;  her  humid  lips  parted  in  a  bright,  wel 
coming  smile,  until,  with  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  arose, 
and  throwing  back  her  head  stretched  towards  him  two 
hands  full  of  vague  and  trembling  passion. 

In  another  moment  he  had  seized  them,  kissed  them, 
and,  as  he  drew  her  closer  to  his  embrace,  felt  them 
tighten  around  his  neck.  "But  what  name  do  you  wish  to 
call  me?"  he  asked,  looking  down  into  her  eyes. 

Miss  Nellie  murmured  something  confidentially  to  the 
third  button  of  his  hunting  shirt.  "But  that,"  he  replied, 
with  a  smile,  "that  wouldn't  be  any  more  practical,  and 
you  wouldn't  want  others  to  call  me  dar — "  Her  fingers 
loosened  around  his  neck,  she  drew  her  head  back,  and 
a  singular  expression  passed  over  her  face,  which  to  any 
calmer  observer  than  a  lover  would  have  seemed,  how 
ever,  to  indicate  more  curiosity  than  jealousy. 

"Who  else  does  call  you  so?"  she  added  earnestly. 
"How  many,  for  instance?" 

Low's  reply  was  addressed  not  to  her  ear,  but  her  lips. 
She  did  not  avoid  it,  but  added,  "And  do  you  kiss  them 


294  Itt   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

all  like  that?"  Taking  him  by  the  shoulders,  she  held 
him  a  little  way  from  her,  and  gazed  at  him  from  head 
to  foot.  Then  drawing  him  again  to  her  embrace,  she 
said,  "I  don't  care,  at  least  no  woman  has  kissed  you  like 
that."  Happy,  dazzled,  and  embarrassed,  he  was  be 
ginning  to  stammer  the  truthful  protestation  that  rose  to 
his  lips,  but  she  stopped  him :  "No,  don't  protest !  say 
nothing !  Let  me  love  you — that  is  all.  It  is  enough." 
He  would  have  caught  her  in  his  arms  again,  but  she 
drew  back.  "We  are  near  the  road,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Come !  You  promised  to  show  me  where  you  camped. 
Let  us  make  the  most  of  our  holiday.  In  an  hour  I  must 
leave  the  woods." 

"But  I  shall  accompany  you,  dearest." 

"No,  I  must  go  as  I  came — alone." 

"But  Nellie—" 

"I  tell  you  no,"  she  said,  with  an  almost  harsh  practical 
decision,  incompatible  with  her  previous  abandonment. 
"We  might  be  seen  together." 

"Well,  suppose  we  are ;  we  must  be  seen  together 
eventually,"  he  remonstrated. 

The  young  girl  made  an  involuntary  gesture  of  im 
patient  negation,  but  checked  herself.  "Don't  let  us  talk 
of  that  now.  Come,  while  I  am  here  under  your  own 
roof — "  she  pointed  to  the  high  interlaced  boughs  above 
them — "you  must  be  hospitable.  Show  me  your  home; 
tell  me,  isn't  it  a  little  gloomy  sometimes?" 

"It  never  has  been;  I  never  thought  it  would  be  until 
the  moment  you  leave  it  to-day." 

She  pressed  his  hand  briefly  and  in  a  half-perfunctory 
way,  as  if  her  vanity  had  accepted  and  dismissed  the 
compliment.  "Take  me  somewhere,"  she  said  inquisi 
tively,  "where  you  stay  most;  I  do  not  seem  to  see  you 
here,"  she  added,  looking  around  her  with  a  slight  shiver. 
"It  is  so  big  and  so  high.  Have  you  no  place  where  you 
eat  and  rest  and  sleep?" 

"Except  in  the  rainy  season,  I  camp  all  over  the  place — 
at  any  spot  where  I  may  have  been  shooting  or  collecting." 

"Collecting?"  queried  Nellie. 

"Yes;  with  the  herbarium,  you  know." 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  296 

"Yes,"  said  Nellie  dubiously.  "But  you  told  me  once — 
the  first  time  we  ever  talked  together,"  she  added,  looking 
in  his  eyes — "something  about  your  keeping  your  things 
like  a  squirrel  in  a  tree.  Could  we  not  go  there?  Is 
there  not  room  for  us  to  sit  and  talk  without  being  brow 
beaten  and  looked  down  upon  by  these  supercilious  trees  ?" 

"It's  too  far  away,"  said  Low  truthfully,  but  with  a 
somewhat  pronounced  emphasis,  "much  too  far  for  you 
just  now;  and  it  lies  on  another  trail  that  enters  the 
wood  beyond.  But  come,  I  will  show  you  a  spring  known 
only  to  myself,  the  wood  ducks,  and  the  squirrels.  I  dis 
covered  it  the  first  day  I  saw  you,  and  gave  it  your  name. 
But  you  shall  christen  it  yourself.  It  will  be  all  yours, 
and  yours  alone,  for  it  is  so  hidden  and  secluded  that  I 
defy  any  feet  but  my  own  or  whoso  shall  keep  step  with 
mine  to  find  it.  Shall  that  foot  be  yours,  Nellie?" 

Her  face  beamed  with  a  bright  assent.  "It  may  be 
difficult  to  track  it  from  here,"  he  said,  "but  stand  where 
you  are  a  moment,  and  don't  move,  rustle,  nor  agitate  the 
air  in  any  way.  The  woods  are  still  now."  He  turned 
at  right  angles  with  the  trail,  moved  a  few  paces  into 
the  ferns  and  underbrush,  and  then  stopped  with  his 
finger  on  his  lips.  For  an  instant  both  remained  motion 
less  ;  then  with  his  intent  face  bent  forward  and  both  arms 
extended,  he  began  to  sink  slowly  upon  one  knee  and  one 
side,  inclining  his  body  with  a  gentle,  perfectly-graduated 
movement  until  his  ear  almost  touched  the  ground. 
Nellie  watched  his  graceful  figure  breathlessly,  until,  like 
a  bow  unbent,  he  stood  suddenly  erect  again,  and  beck 
oned  to  her  without  changing  the  direction  of  his  face. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"All  right;  I  have  found  it,"  he  continued,  moving  for 
ward  without  turning  his  head. 

"But  how?  What  did  you  kneel  for?"  He  did  not 
reply,  but  taking  her  hand  in  his  continued  to  move 
slowly  on  through  the  underbrush,  as  if  obeying  some 
magnetic  attraction.  "How  did  you  find  it?"  again  asked 
the  half-awed  girl,  her  voice  unconsciously  falling  to  a 
whisper.  Still  silent,  Low  kept  his  rigid  face  and  for 
ward  tread  for  twenty  yards  further;  then  he  stopped 


296  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

and  released  the  girl's  half-impatient  hand.  "How  did 
you  find  it?"  she  repeated  sharply. 

"With  my  ears  and  nose,"  replied  Low  gravely. 

"With  your  nose?" 

"Yes;  I  smelt  it." 

Still  fresh  with  the  memory  of  his  picturesque  attitude, 
the  young  man's  reply  seemed  to  involve  something  more 
irritating  to  her  feelings  than  even  that  absurd  anti 
climax.  She  looked  at  him  coldly  and  critically,  and 
appeared  to  hesitate  whether  to  proceed.  "Is  it  far?" 
she  asked. 

"Not  more  than  ten  minutes  now,  as  I  shall  go." 

"And  you  won't  have  to  smell  your  way  again?" 

"No ;  it  is  quite  plain  now,"  he  answered  seriously,  the 
young  girl's  sarcasm  slipping  harmlessly  from  his  Indian 
stolidity.  "Don't  you  smell  it  yourself?" 

But  Miss  Nellie's  thin,  cold  nostrils  refused  to  take 
that  vulgar  interest. 

"Nor  hear  it  ?     Listen  !" 

"You  forget  I  suffer  the  misfortune  of  having  been 
brought  up  under  a  roof,"  she  replied  coldly. 

"That's  true,"  repeated  Low,  in  all  seriousness;  "it's 
not  your  fault.  But  do  you  know,  I  sometimes  think  I 
am  peculiarly  sensitive  to  water ;  I  feel  it  miles  away. 
At  night,  though  I  may  not  see  it  or  even  know  where  it 
is,  I  am  conscious  of  it.  It  is  company  to  me  when 
I  am  alone,  and  I  seem  to  hear  it  in  my  dreams.  There 
is  no  music  as  sweet  to  me  as  its  song.  When  you  sang 
with  me  that  day  in  church,  I  seemed  to  hear  it  ripple 
in  your  voice.  It  says  to  me  more  than  the  birds  do, 
more  than  the  rarest  plants  I  find.  It  seems  to  live  with 
me  and  for  me.  It  is  my  earliest  recollection;  I  know  it 
will  be  my  last,  for  I  shall  die  in  its  embrace.  Do  you 
think,  Nellie,"  he  continued,  stopping  short  and  gazing 
earnestly  in  her  face — "do  you  think  that  the  chiefs  knew 
this  when  they  called  me  'Sleeping  Water'  ?" 

To  Miss  Nellie's  several  gifts  I  fear  the  gods  had  not 
added  poetry.  A  slight  knowledge  of  English  verse  of  a 
select  character,  unfortunately,  did  not  assist  her  in  the 
interpretation  of  the  young  man's  speech,  nor  relieve  her 


IN    THE    CAEQUINEZ    WOODS  297 

from  the  momentary  feeling  that  he  was  at  times  de 
ficient  in  intellect.  She  preferred,  however,  to  take  a 
personal  view  of  the  question,  and  expressed  her  sar 
castic  regret  that  she  had  not  known  before  that  she  had 
been  indebted  to  the  great  flume  and  ditch  at  Excelsior 
for  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance.  This  pert  remark 
occasioned  some  explanation,  which  ended  in  the  girl's 
accepting  a  kiss  in  lieu  of  more  logical  argument.  Nev 
ertheless,  she  was  still  conscious  of  an  inward  irritation — 
always  distinct  from  her  singular  and  perfectly  material 
passion — which  found  vent  as  the  difficulties  of  their  un- 
deviating  progress  through  the  underbrush  increased.  At 
last  she  lost  her  shoe  again,  and  stopped  short.  "It's  a 
pity  your  Indian  friends  did  not  christen  you  'Wild  Mus 
tard'  or  'Clover,'  "  she  said  satirically,  "that  you  might 
have  had  some  sympathies  and  longings  for  the  open  fields 
instead  of  these  horrid  jungles !  I  know  we  will  not  get 
back  in  time." 

Unfortunately,  Low  accepted  this  speech  literally  and 
with  his  remorseless  gravity.  "If  my  name  annoys  you, 
I  can  get  it  changed  by  the  legislature,  you  know,  and  I 
can  find  out  what  my  father's  name  was,  and  take  that. 
My  mother,  who  died  in  giving  me  birth,  was  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  chief." 

"Then  your  mother  was  really  an  Indian?"  said  Nellie, 
"and  you  are — "  She  stopped  short. 

"But  I  told  you  all  this  the  day  we  first  met,"  said  Low, 
with  grave  astonishment.  "Don't  you  remember  our  long 
talk  coming  from  church?" 

"No,"  said  Nellie  coldly,  "you  didn't  tell  me."  But  she 
was  obliged  to  drop  her  eyes  before  the  unwavering,  un 
deniable  truthfulness  of  his. 

"You  have  forgotten,"  he  said  calmly;  "but  it  is  only 
right  you  should  have  your  own  way  in  disposing  of  a 
name  that  I  have  cared  little  for;  and  as  you're  to  have 
a  share  of  it — " 

"Yes,  but  it's  getting  late,  and  if  we  are  not  going 
forward — "  interrupted  the  girl  impatiently. 

"We  are  going  forward,"  said  Low  imperturbably ;  "but 
I  wanted  to  tell  you,  as  we  were  speaking  on  that  subject" 


298  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

(Nellie  looked  at  her  watch),  "I've  been  offered  the 
place  of  botanist  and  naturalist  in  Professor  Grant's 
survey  of  Mount  Shasta,  and  if  I  take  it — why,  when  I 
come  back,  darling — well — " 

"But  you're  not  going  just  yet,"  broke  in  Nellie,  with  a 
new  expression  in  her  face. 

"No." 

"Then  we  need  not  talk  of  it  now,"  she  said,  with  ani 
mation. 

Her  sudden  vivacity  relieved  him.  "I  see  what's  the 
matter,"  he  said  gently,  looking  down  at  her  feet ;  "these 
little  shoes  were  not  made  to  keep  step  with  a  moccasin. 
We  must  try  another  way."  He  stooped  as  if  to  secure 
the  erring  buskin,  but  suddenly  lifted  her  like  a  child  to 
his  shoulder.  "There,"  he  continued,  placing  her  arm 
round  his  neck,  "you  are  clear  of  the  ferns  and  brambles 
now,  and  we  can  go  on.  Are  you  comfortable?"  He 
looked  up,  read  her  answer  in  her  burning  eyes  and  the 
warm  lips  pressed  to  his  forehead  at  the  roots  of  his 
straight  dark  hair,  and  again  moved  onward  as  in  a 
mesmeric  dream.  But  he  did  not  swerve  from  his  direct 
course,  and  with  a  final  dash  through  the  undergrowth 
parted  the  leafy  curtain  before  the  spring. 

At  first  the  young  girl  was  dazzled  by  the  strong  light 
that  came  from  a  rent  in  the  interwoven  arches  of  the 
wood.  The  breach  had  been  caused  by  the  huge  bulk  of 
one  of  the  great  giants  that  had  half  fallen,  and  was 
lying  at  a  steep  angle  against  one  of  its  mightiest 
brethren,  having  borne  down  a  lesser  tree  in  the  arc  of 
its  downward  path.  Two  of  the  roots,  as  large  as 
younger  trees,  tossed  their  blackened  and  bare  limbs 
high  in  the  air.  The  spring — the  insignificant  cause  of 
this  vast  disruption — gurgled,  flashed,  and  sparkled  at  the 
base;  the  limpid  baby  fingers  that  had  laid  bare  the 
foundations  of  that  fallen  column  played  with  the  still 
clinging  rootlets,  laved  the  fractured  and  twisted  limbs, 
and,  widening,  filled  with  sleeping  water  the  graves  from 
which  they  had  been  torn. 

"It  had  been  going  on  for  years,  down  there,"  said 
Low,  pointing  to  a  cavity  from  which  the  fresh  water 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS  299 

now  slowly  welled,  "but  it  had  been  quickened  by  the 
rising  of  the  subterranean  springs  and  rivers  which 
always  occurs  at  a  certain  stage  of  the  dry  season.  I 
remember  that  on  that  very  night — for  it  happened  a  little 
after  midnight,  when  all  sounds  are  more  audible — I  was 
troubled  and  oppressed  in  my  sleep  by  what  you  would 
call  a  nightmare;  a  feeling  as  if  I  was  kept  down  by 
bonds  and  pinions  that  I  longed  to  break.  And  then  I 
heard  a  crash  in  this  direction,  and  the  first  streak  of 
morning  brought  me  the  sound  and  scent  of  water.  Six 
months  afterwards  I  chanced  to  find  my  way  here,  as  I 
told  you,  and  gave  it  your  name.  I  did  not  dream  that 
I  should  ever  stand  beside  it  with  you,  and  have  you 
christen  it  yourself." 

He  unloosened  the  cup  from  his  flask,  and  filling  it  at  the 
spring  handed  it  to  her.  But  the  young  girl  leant  over 
the  pool,  and  pouring  the  water  idly  back  said,  "I'd  rather 
put  my  feet  in  it.  Mayn't  I  ?" 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said  wonderingly. 

"My  feet  are  so  hot  and  dusty.  The  water  looks 
deliciously  cool.  May  I?" 

"Certainly." 

He  turned  away  as  Nellie,  with  apparent  unconscious 
ness,  seated  herself  on  the  bank,  and  removed  her  shoes 
and  stockings.  When  she  had  dabbled  her  feet  a  few 
moments  in  the  pool,  she  said  over  her  shoulder — 

"We  can  talk  just  as  well,  can't  we?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well,  then,  why  didn't  you  come  to  church  more  often, 
and  why  didn't  you  think  of  telling  father  that  you  were 
convicted  of  sin  and  wanted  to  be  baptized?" 

"I  don't  know,"  hesitated  the  young  man. 

"Well,  you  lost  the  chance  of  having  father  convert 
you,  baptize  you,  and  take  you  into  full  church  fel 
lowship." 

"I  never  thought — "  he  began. 

"You  never  thought.     Aren't  you  a  Christian?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"He  supposes  so !  Have  you  no  convictions — no  pro 
fession  ?" 


300  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"But,  Nellie,  I  never  thought  that  you—" 

"Never  thought  that  I — what?  Do  you  think  that  I 
could  ever  be  anything  to  a  man  who  did  not  believe  in 
justification  by  faith,  or  in  the  covenant  of  church  fellow 
ship  ?  Do  you  think  father  would  let  me  ?" 

In  his  eagerness  to  defend  himself  he  stepped  to  her 
side.  But  seeing  her  little  feet  shining  through  the  dark 
water,  like  outcroppings  of  delicately  veined  quartz,  he 
stopped  embarrassed.  Miss  Nellie,  however,  leaped  to 
one  foot,  and,  shaking  the  other  over  the  pool,  put  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder  to  steady  herself.  "You  haven't  got 
a  towel — or,"  she  said  dubiously,  looking  at  her  small 
handkerchief,  "anything  to  dry  them  on  ?" 

But  Low  did  not,  as  she  perhaps  expected,  offer  his 
own  handkerchief. 

"If  you  take  a  bath  after  our  fashion,"  he  said  gravely, 
"you  must  learn  to  dry  yourself  after  our  fashion." 

Lifting  her  again  lightly  in  his  arms,  he  carried  her  a 
few  steps  to  the  sunny  opening,  and  bade  her  bury  her 
feet  in  the  dried  mosses  and  baked  withered  grasses  that 
were  bleaching  in  a  hollow.  The  young  girl  uttered  a 
cry  of  childish  delight,  as  the  soft  ciliated  fibres  touched 
her  sensitive  skin. 

"It  is  healing,  too,"  continued  Low ;  "a  moccasin  filled 
with  it  after  a  day  on  the  trail  makes  you  all  right  again," 

But  Miss  Nellie  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something 
else. 

"Is  that  the  way  the  squaws  bathe  and  dry  them 
selves  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  you  forget  I  was  a  boy  when  I  left 
them." 

"And  you're  sure  you  never  knew  any?" 

"None." 

The  young  girl  seemed  to  derive  some  satisfaction  in 
moving  her  feet  up  and  down  for  several  minutes  among 
the  grasses  in  the  hollow;  then,  after  a  pause,  said,  "You 
are  quite  certain  I  am  the  first  woman  that  ever  touched 
this  spring?" 

"Not  only  the  first  woman,  but  the  first  human  being, 
except  myself." 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ    WOODS  301 

"How  nice !" 

They  had  taken  each  other's  hands ;  seated  side  by  side, 
they  leaned  against  a  curving  elastic  root  that  half  sup 
ported,  half  encompassed,  them.  The  girl's  capricious, 
fitful  manner  succumbed  as  before  to  the  near  contact 
of  her  companion.  Looking  into  her  eyes,  Low  fell  into 
a  sweet,  selfish  lover's  monologue,  descriptive  of  his  past 
and  present  feelings  towards  her,  which  she  accepted 
with  a  heightened  color,  a  slight  exchange  of  sentiment, 
and  a  strange  curiosity.  The  sun  had  painted  their  half- 
embraced  silhouettes  against  the  slanting  tree-trunk,  and 
began  to  decline  unnoticed ;  the  ripple  of  the  water 
mingling  with  their  whispers  came  as  one  sound  to  the 
listening  ear;  even  their  eloquent  silences  were  as  deep, 
and,  I  wot,  perhaps  as  dangerous,  as  the  darkened  pool 
that  filled  so  noiselessly  a  dozen  yards  away.  So  quiet 
were  they  that  the  tremor  of  invading  wings  once  or 
twice  shook  the  silence,  or  the  quick  scamper  of  fright 
ened  feet  rustled  the  dead  grass.  But  in  the  midst  of  a 
prolonged  stillness  the  young  man  sprang  up  so  suddenly 
that  Nellie  was  still  half  clinging  to  his  neck  as  he  stood 
erect.  "Hush  !"  he  whispered ;  "some  one  is  near  !" 

He  disengaged  her  anxious  hands  gently,  leaped  upon 
the  slanting  tree-trunk,  and  running  half-way  up  its  in 
cline  with  the  agility  of  a  squirrel,  stretched  himself  at 
full  length  upon  it  and  listened. 

To  the  impatient,  inexplicably  startled  girl,  it  seemed 
an  age  before  he  rejoined  her. 

"You  are  safe,"  he  said;  "he  is  going  by  the  western 
trail  towards  Indian  Spring." 

"Who  is  he?"  she  asked,  biting  her  lips  with  a  poorly 
restrained  gesture  of  mortification  and  disappointment. 

"Some  stranger,"  replied  Low. 

"As  long  as  he  wasn't  coming  here,  why  did  you  give 
me  such  a  fright?"  she  said  pettishly.  "Are  you  nervous 
because  a  single  wayfarer  happens  to  stray  here?" 

"It  was  no  wayfarer,  for  he  tried  to  keep  near  the 
trail,"  said  Low.  "He  was  a  stranger  to  the  wood,  for 
he  lost  his  way  every  now  and  then.  He  was  seeking  or 
expecting  some  one,  for  he  stopped  frequently  and  waited 


302  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

or  listened.  He  had  not  walked  far,  for  he  wore  spurs 
that  tinkled  and  caught  in  the  brush;  and  yet  he  had  not 
ridden  here,  for  no  horse's  hoofs  passed  the  road  since  we 
have  been  here.  He  must  have  come  from  Indian 
Spring." 

"And  you  heard  all  that  when  you  listened  just  now?" 
asked  Nellie,  half  disdainfully. 

Impervious  to  her  incredulity  Low  turned  his  calm  eyes 
on  her  face.  "Certainly,  I'll  bet  my  life  on  what  I  say. 
Tell  me :  do  you  know  anybody  in  Indian  Spring  who 
would  likely  spy  upon  you?" 

The  young  girl  was  conscious  of  a  certain  ill-defined 
uneasiness,  but  answered,  "No." 

"Then  it  was  not  you  he  was  seeking,"  said  Low 
thoughtfully.  Miss  Nellie  had  not  time  to  notice  the 
emphasis,  for  he  added,  "You  must  go  at  once,  and  lest 
you  have  been  followed  I  will  show  you  another  way 
back  to  Indian  Spring.  It  is  longer,  and  you  must  hasten. 
Take  your  shoes  and  stockings  with  you  until  we  are  out 
of  the  bush." 

He  raised  her  again  in  his  arms  and  strode  once  more 
out  through  the  covert  into  the  dim  aisles  of  the  wood. 
They  spoke  but  little ;  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  some 
other  discordant  element,  affecting  him  more  strongly 
than  it  did  her,  had  come  between  them,  and  was  half 
perplexed  and  half  frightened.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes 
he  seated  her  upon  a  fallen  branch,  and  telling  her  he 
would  return  by  the  time  she  had  resumed  her  shoes  and 
stockings  glided  from  her  like  a  shadow.  She  would  have 
uttered  an  indignant  protest  at  being  left  alone,  but  he 
was  gone  ere  she  could  detain  him.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  she  hated  him.  But  when  she  had  mechanically 
shod  herself  once  more,  not  without  nervous  shivers  at 
every  falling  needle,  he  was  at  her  side. 

"Do  you  know  anyone  who  wears  a  frieze  coat  like 
that?"  he  asked,  handing  her  a  few  torn  shreds  of  wool 
affixed  to  a  splinter  of  bark. 

Miss  Nellie  instantly  recognized  the  material  of  a  cer 
tain  sporting  coat  worn  by  Mr.  Jack  Brace  on  festive 
occasions,  but  a  strange  yet  infallible  instinct  that  was 


303 

part  of  her  nature  made  her  instantly  disclaim  all  knowl- 
"dge  of  it. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Not  anyone  who  scents  himself  with  some  doctor's 
stufi  like  cologne?"  continued  Low,  with  the  disgust  of 
keen  olfactory  sensibilities. 

Aga;.n  Miss  Nellie  recognized  the  perfume  with  which 
the  gallant  expressman  was  wont  to  make  redolent  her 
little  pailor,  but  again  she  avowed  no  knowledge  of  its 
possessor.  "Well,"  returned  Low  with  some  disappoint 
ment,  "such  a  man  has  been  here.  Be  on  your  guard. 
Let  us  go  at  once." 

She  required  no  urging  to  hasten  her  steps,  but  hurried 
breathlessly  at  his  side.  He  had  taken  a  new  trail  by 
which  they  left  the  wood  at  right  angles  with  the  high 
way,  two  miles  away.  Following  an  almost  effaced  mule 
track  along  a  slight  depression  of  the  plain,  deep  enough, 
however,  to  hide  them  from  view,  he  accompanied  her, 
until,  rising  to  the  level  again,  she  saw  they  were  begin 
ning  to  approach  the  highway  and  the  distant  roofs  of 
Indian  Spring.  "Nobody  meeting  you  now,"  he 
whispered,  "would  suspect  where  you  had  been.  Good 
night !  until  next  week — remember." 

They  pressed  each  other's  hands,  and  standing  on  the 
slight  ridge  outlined  against  the  paling  sky,  in  full  view 
of  the  highway,  parting  carelessly,  as  if  they  had  been 
chance  met  travelers.  But  Nellie  could  not  restrain  a 
parting  backward  glance  as  she  left  the  ridge.  Low  had 
descended  to  the  deserted  trail,  and  was  running  swiftly 
in  the  direction  of  the  Carquinez  Woods. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TERESA  awoke  with  a  start.  It  was  day  already,  but 
how  far  advanced  the  even,  unchanging,  soft  twilight  of 
the  woods  gave  no  indication.  Her  companion  had  van 
ished,  and  to  her  bewildered  senses  so  had  the  camp-fire, 
even  to  its  embers  and  ashes.  Was  she  awake,  or  had  she 
wandered  away  unconsciously  in  the  night?  One  glance 


304  IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

at  the  tree  above  her  dissipated  the  fancy.  There  was 
the  opening  of  her  quaint  retreat  and  the  hanging  strips 
of  bark,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  opposite  treee  lay  the 
carcass  of  the  bear.  It  had  been  skinned,  and,  as  Teresa 
thought  with  an  inward  shiver,  already  looked  half  its 
former  size. 

Not  yet  accustomed  to  the  fact  that  a  few  steps  in 
either  direction  around  the  circumference  of  those  great 
trunks  produced  the  sudden  appearance  or  disappearance 
of  any  figure,  Teresa  uttered  a  slight  scream  as  her 
young  companion  unexpectedly  stepped  to  her  side.  "You 
see  a  change  here,"  he  said;  "the  stamped-out  ashes  of 
the  camp-fire  lie  under  the  brush,"  and  he  pointed  to 
some  cleverly  scattered  boughs  and  strips  of  bark  which 
completely  effaced  the  traces  of  last  night's  bivouac. 
"We  can't  afford  to  call  the  attention  of  any  packer  or 
hunter  who  might  straggle  this  way  to  this  particular 
spot  and  this  particular  tree;  the  more  naturally,"  he 
added,  "as  they  always  prefer  to  camp  over  an  old  fire." 
Accepting  this  explanation  meekly,  as  partly  a  reproach 
for  her  caprice  of  the  previous  night,  Teresa  hung  her 
head. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  wouldn't  that,"  point 
ing  to  the  carcass  of  the  bear,  "have  made  them  curious  ?" 

But  Low's  logic  was  relentless. 

"By  this  time  there  would  have  been  little  left  to  excite 
curiosity,  if  you  had  been  willing  to  leave  those  beasts  to 
their  work." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  repeated  the  woman,  her  lips  quiv 
ering. 

"They  are  the  scavengers  of  the  wood,"  he  continued 
in  a  lighter  tone;  "if  you  stay  here  you  must  try  to  use 
them  to  keep  your  house  clean." 

Teresa  smiled  nervously. 

"I  mean  that  they  shall  finish  their  work  to-night,"  he 
added,  "and  I  shall  build  another  camp-fire  for  us  a  mile 
from  here  until  they  do." 

But  Teresa  caught  his  sleeve. 

"No,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "don't,  please,  for  me,  You 
must  not  take  the  trouble,  nor  the  risk.  Hear  me;  do, 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  305 

please.  I  can  bear  it,  I  will  bear  it — to-night.  I  would 
have  borne  it  last  night,  but  it  was  so  strange — and" — 
sue  passed  her  hands  over  her  forehead — "I  think  I  must 
hare  been  half  mad.  But  I  am  not  so  foolish  now." 

She  seemed  so  broken  and  despondent  that  he  replied 
reassuringly :  "Perhaps  it  would  be  better  that  I  should 
find  another  hiding-place  for  you,  until  I  can  dispose  of 
that  carcass  so  that  it  will  not  draw  dogs  after  the  wolves, 
and  men  after  them.  Besides,  your  friend  the  sheriff  will 
probably  remember  the  bear  when  he  remembers  anything, 
and  try  to  get  on  its  track  again." 

"He's  a  conceited  fool,"  broke  in  Teresa  in  a  high  voice, 
with  a  slight  return  of  her  old  fury,  "or  he'd  have  guessed 
where  that  shot  came  from;  and,"  she  added  in  a  lower 
tone,  looking  down  at  her  limp  and  nerveless  fingers,  "he 
wouldn't  have  let  a  poor,  weak,  nervous  wretch  like  me 
get  away." 

"But  his  deputy  may  put  two  and  two  together,  and 
connect  your  escape  with  it." 

Teresa's  eyes  flashed.  "It  would  be  like  the  dog,  just 
to  save  his  pride,  to  swear  it  was  an  ambush  of  my 
friends,  and  that  he  was  overpowered  by  numbers.  Oh 
yes !  I  see  it  all !"  she  almost  screamed,  lashing  herself 
into  a  rage  at  the  bare  contemplation  of  this  diminution 
of  her  glory.  "That's  the  dirty  lie  he  tells  everywhere, 
and  is  telling  now." 

She  stamped  her  feet  and  glanced  savagely  around,  as 
if  at  any  risk  to  proclaim  the  falsehood.  Low  turned  his 
impassive,  truthful  face  towards  her. 

"Sheriff  Dunn,"  he  began  gravely,  "is  a  politician,  and 
a  fool  when  he  takes  to  the  trail  as  a  hunter  of  man  or 
beast.  But  he  is  not  a  coward  nor  a  liar.  Your  chances 
would  be  better  if  he  were — if  he  laid  your  escape  to  an 
ambush  of  your  friends,  than  if  his  pride  held  you  alone 
responsible." 

"If  he's  such  a  good  man,  why  do  you  hesitate?"  she 
replied  bitterly.  "Why  don't  you  give  me  up  at  once, 
and  do  a  service  to  one  of  your  friends  ?" 

"I  do  not  even  know  him,"  returned  Low  opening 
his  clear  eyes  upon  her.  "I've  promised  to  hide  you 


306  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

here,  and  I  shall  hide  you  as  well  from  him  as  from 
anybody." 

Teresa  did  not  reply,  but  suddenly  dropping  down  upon 
the  ground  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  began  to 
sob  convulsively.  Low  turned  impassively  away,  and  put 
ting  aside  the  bark  curtain  climbed  into  the  hollov  tree. 
In  a  few  moments  he  reappeared,  laden  with  previsions 
and  a  few  simple  cooking  utensils,  and  touched  her  lightly 
on  the  shoulder.  She  looked  up  timidly;  the  paroxysm 
had  passed,  but  her  lashes  yet  glittered. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "come  and  get  some  breakfast.  I  find 
you  have  eaten  nothing  since  you  have  been  here — twenty- 
four  hours." 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  Then 
seeing  his  burden,  and  possessed  by  a  new  and  strange 
desire  for  some  menial  employment,  she  said  hurriedly, 
"Let  me  carry  something — do,  please,"  and  even  tried  to 
disencumber  him. 

Half  annoyed,  Low  at  last  yielded,  and  handing  his  rifle 
said,  "There,  then,  take  that ;  but  be  careful — it's  loaded  !" 

A  cruel  blush  burnt  the  woman's  face  to  the  roots  of 
her  hair  as  she  took  the  weapon  hesitatingly  in  her  hand. 

"No!"  she  stammered,  hurriedly  lifting  her  shame- 
suffused  eyes  to  his ;  "no !  no  !" 

He  turned  away  with  an  impatience  which  showed  her 
how  completely  gratuitous  had  been  her  agitation  and  its 
significance,  and  said,  "Well,  then,  give  it  back  if  you  are 
afraid  of  it."  But  she  as  suddenly  declined  to  return  it; 
and  shouldering  it  deftly,  took  her  place  by  his  side. 
Silently  they  moved  from  the  hollow  tree  together. 

During  their  walk  she  did  not  attempt  to  invade  his 
taciturnity.  Nevertheless  she  was  as  keenly  alive  and 
watchful  of  his  every  movement  and  gesture  as  if  she  had 
hung  enchanted  on  his  lips.  The  unerring  way  with  which 
he  pursued  a  viewless,  undeviating  path  through  those 
trackless  woods,  his  quick  reconnaissance  of  certain  tree? 
or  openings,  his  mute  inspection  of  some  almost  imper 
ceptible  footprint  of  bird  or  beast,  his  critical  examination 
of  certain  plants  which  he  plucked  and  deposited  5n  his 
deerskin  haversack,  were  not  lost  on  the  quick-witted 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  307 

woman.  As  they  gradually  changed  the  clear,  unencum 
bered  aisles  of  the  central  woods  for  a  more  tangled  un 
dergrowth,  Teresa  felt  that  subtle  admiration  which 
culminates  in  imitation,  and  simulating  perfectly  the  step, 
tread,  and  easy  swing  of  her  companion,  followed  so  ac 
curately  his  lead  that  she  won  a  gratified  exclamation 
from  him  when  their  goal  was  reached — a  broken,  black 
ened  shaft,  splintered  by  long-forgotten  lightning,  in  the 
centre  of  a  tangled  carpet  of  wood-clover. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  distanced  the  deputy,"  he  said 
cheerfully,  throwing  down  his  burden,  "if  you  can  take 
the  hunting-path  like  that.  In  a  few  days,  if  you  stay 
here,  I  can  venture  to  trust  you  alone  for  a  little  pasear 
when  you  are  tired  of  the  tree." 

Teresa  looked  pleased,  but  busied  herself  with  arrange 
ments  for  the  breakfast,  while  he  gathered  the  fuel  for  the 
roaring  fire  which  soon  blazed  beside  the  shattered  tree. 

Teresa's  breakfast  was  a  success.  It  was  a  revelation 
to  the  young  nomad,  whose  ascetic  habits  and  simple 
tastes  were  usually  content  with  the  most  primitive  forms 
of  frontier  cookery.  It  was  at  least  a  surprise  to  him  to 
know  that  without  extra  trouble  kneaded  flour,  water,  and 
saleratus  need  not  be  essentially  heavy ;  that  coffee  need 
not  be  boiled  with  sugar  to  the  consistency  of  syrup ;  that 
even  that  rarest  delicacy,  small  shreds  of  venison  covered 
with  ashes  and  broiled  upon  the  end  of  a  ramrod  boldly 
thrust  into  the  flames,  would  be  better  and  even  more 
expeditiously  cooked  upon  burning  coals.  Moved  in  his 
practical  nature,  he  was  surprised  to  find  this  curious 
creature  of  disorganized  nerves  and  useless  impulses  in 
formed  with  an  intelligence  that  did  not  preclude  the  wel 
fare  of  humanity  or  the  existence  of  a  soul.  He  respected 
her  for  some  minutes,  until  in  the  midst  of  a  culinary 
triumph  a  big  tear  dropped  and  spluttered  in  the  sauce 
pan.  But  he  forgave  the  irrelevancy  by  taking  no  notice 
of  it,  and  by  doing  full  justice  to  that  particular  dish. 

Nevertheless,  he  asked  several  questions  based  upon 
these  recently  discovered  qualities.  It  appeared  that  in 
the  old  days  of  her  wanderings  with  the  circus  troupe 
she  had  often  been  forced  to  undertake  this  nomadic 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

housekeeping.  But  she  "despised  it,"  had  never  done  it 
since,  and  always  had  refused  to  do  it  for  "him" — the 
personal  pronoun  referring,  as  Low  understood,  to  her 
lover,  Curson.  Not  caring  to  revive  these  memories 
further,  Low  briefly  concluded :  "I  don't  know  what  you 
were,  or  what  you  may  be,  but  from  what  I  see  of  you 
you've  got  all  the  sabe  of  a  frontierman's  wife." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him,  and  then  with  an  im 
pulse  of  imprudence  that  only  half  concealed  a  more 
serious  vanity,  asked,  "Do  you  think  I  might  have  made  a 
good  squaw  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  quietly.  "I  never  saw 
enough  of  them  to  know." 

Teresa,  confident  from  his  clear  eyes  that  he  spoke  the 
truth,  but  having  nothing  ready  to  follow  this  calm  dis 
posal  of  her  curiosity,  relapsed  into  silence. 

The  meal  finished,  Teresa  washed  their  scant  table 
equipage  in  a  little  spring  near  the  camp-fire;  where, 
catching  sight  of  her  disordered  dress  and  collar,  she 
rapidly  threw  her  shawl,  after  the  national  fashion,  over 
her  shoulder  and  pinned  it  quickly.  Low  cached  the  re 
maining  provisions  and  the  few  cooking  utensils  under  the 
dead  embers  and  ashes,  obliterating  all  superficial  indica 
tion  of  their  camp-fire  as  deftly  and  artistically  as  he  had 
before. 

"There  isn't  the  ghost  of  a  chance,"  he  said  in  explana 
tion,  "that  anybody  but  you  or  I  will  set  foot  here  before 
we  come  back  to  supper,  but  it's  well  to  be  on  guard.  I'll 
take  you  back  to  the  cabin  now,  though  I  bet  you  could 
find  your  way  there  as  well  as  I  can." 

On  their  way  back  Teresa  ran  ahead  of  her  companion, 
and  plucking  a  few  tiny  leaves  from  a  hidden  oasis  in  the 
bark-strewn  trail  brought  them  to  him. 

"That's  the  kind  you're  looking  for,  isn't  it?"  she  said, 
half  timidly. 

"It  is,"  responded  Low,  in  gratified  surprise ;  "but  how 
did  you  know  it?  You're  not  a  botanist,  are  you?" 

"I  reckon  not,"  said  Teresa ;  "but  you  picked  some  when 
we  came,  and  I  noticed  what  they  were." 

Here  was  indeed  another  revelation.    Low  stopped  and 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  309 

gazed  at  her  with  such  frank,  open,  utterly  unabashed 
curiosity  that  her  black  eyes  fell  before  him. 

"And  do  you  think,"  he  asked  with  logical  deliberation, 
"that  you  could  find  any  plant  from  another  I  should  give 


you 


"Yes." 

"Or  from  a  drawing  of  it" 

"Yes;  perhaps  even  if  you  described  it  to  me." 

A  half-confidential,  half-fraternal  silence  followed. 

"I  tell  you  what.    I've  got  a  book — " 

"I  know  it,"  interrupted  Teresa ;  "full  of  these  things." 

"Yes.     Do  you  think  you  could — " 

"Of  course  I  could,"  broke  in  Teresa,  again. 

"But  you  don't  know  what  I  mean,"  said  the  im 
perturbable  Low. 

"Certainly  I  do.  Why,  find  'em,  and  preserve  all  the 
different  ones  for  you  to  write  under — that's  it,  isn't  it?" 

Low  nodded  his  head,  gratified  but  not  entirely  con 
vinced  that  she  had  fully  estimated  the  magnitude  of  the 
endeavor. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Teresa,  in  the  feminine  postscriptum 
voice  which  it  would  seem  entered  even  the  philosophical 
calm  of  the  aisles  they  were  treading — "I  suppose  that  she 
places  great  value  on  them?" 

Low  had  indeed  heard  Science  personified  before,  nor 
was  it  at  all  impossible  that  the  singular  woman  walking 
by  his  side  had  also.  He  said  "Yes ;"  but  added,  in  mental 
reference  to  the  Linnean  Society  of  San  Francisco,  that 
"they  were  rather  particular  about  the  rarer  kinds." 

Content  as  Teresa  had  been  to  believe  in  Low's  tender 
relations  with  some  favored  one  of  her  sex,  this  frank 
confession  of  a  plural  devotion  staggered  her. 

"They?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,"  he  continued  calmly.  "The  Botanical  Society  I 
correspond  with  are  more  particular  than  the  Government 
Survey." 

"Then  you  are  doing  this  for  a  society?"  demanded 
Teresa,  with  a  stare. 

"Certainly.  I'm  making  a  collection  and  classification 
of  specimens.  I  intend — but  what  are  you  looking  at?" 


310  IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

Teresa  had  suddenly  turned  away.  Putting  his  hand 
lightly  on  her  shoulder,  the  young  man  brought  her  face 
to  face  him  again. 

She  was  laughing. 

"I  thought  all  the  while  it  was  for  a  girl,"  she  said; 
"and — "  But  here  the  mere  effort  of  speech  sent  her  off 
into  an  audible  and  genuine  outburst  of  laughter.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  even  smile  other  than  bit 
terly.  Characteristically  unconscious  of  any  humor  in  her 
error,  he  remained  unembarrassed.  But  he  could  not 
help  noticing  a  change  in  the  expression  of  her  face,  her 
voice,  and  even  her  intonation.  It  seemed  as  if  that  fit  of 
laughter  had  loosed  the  last  ties  that  bound  her  to  a  self- 
imposed  character,  had  swept  away  the  last  barrier  be 
tween  her  and  her  healthier  nature,  had  dispossessed  a 
painful  unreality,  and  relieved  the  morbid  tension  of  a 
purely  nervous  attitude.  The  change  in  her  utterance  and 
the  resumption  of  her  softer  Spanish  accent  seemed  to 
have  come  with  her  confidences,  and  Low  took  leave  of 
her  before  their  sylvan  cabin  with  a  comrade's  hearti 
ness,  and  a  complete  forgetfulness  that  her  voice  had 
ever  irritated  him. 

When  he  returned  that  afternoon  he  was  startled  to 
find  the  cabin  empty.  But  instead  of  bearing  any  appear 
ance  of  disturbance  or  hurried  flight,  the  rude  interior 
seemed  to  have  magically  assumed  a  decorous  order  and 
cleanliness  unknown  before.  Fresh  bark  hid  the  inequali 
ties  of  the  floor.  The  skins  and  blankets  were  folded  in 
the  corners,  the  rude  shelves  were  carefully  arranged,  even 
a  few  tall  ferns  and  bright  but  quickly  fading  flowers  were 
disposed  around  the  blackened  chimney.  She  had  evi 
dently  availed  herself  of  the  change  of  clothing  he  had 
brought  her,  for  her  late  garments  were  hanging  from  the 
hastily-devised  wooden  pegs  driven  in  the  wall.  The 
young  man  gazed  around  him  with  mixed  feelings  of 
gratification  and  uneasiness.  His  presence  had  been  dis 
possessed  in  a  single  hour;  his  ten  years  of  lonely  habita 
tion  had  left  no  trace  that  this  woman  had  not  effaced 
with  a  deft  move  of  her  hand.  More  than  that,  it  looked 
as  if  she  had  always  occupied  it;  and  it  was  with  a 


IN    THE    OARQUINEZ    WOODS  311 

singular  conviction  that  even  when  she  should  occupy  it 
no  longer  it  would  only  revert  to  him  as  her  dwelling  that 
he  dropped  the  bark  shutters  athwart  the  opening,  and 
left  it  to  follow  her. 

To  his  quick  ear,  fine  eye,  and  abnormal  senses,  this 
was  easy  enough.  She  had  gone  in  the  direction  of  this 
morning's  camp.  Once  or  twice  he  paused  with  a  half- 
gesture  of  recognition  and  a  characteristic  "Good !"  at  the 
place  where  she  had  stopped,  but  was  surprised  to  find 
that  her  main  course  had  been  as  direct  as  his  own. 
Deviating  from  this  direct  line  with  Indian  precaution,  he 
first  made  a  circuit  of  the  camp,  and  approached  the  shat 
tered  trunk  from  the  opposite  direction.  He  consequently 
came  upon  Teresa  unawares.  But  the  momentary  as 
tonishment  and  embarrassment  were  his  alone. 

He  scarcely  recognized  her.  She  was  wearing  the  gar 
ments  he  had  brought  her  the  day  before — a  certain  dis 
carded  gown  of  Miss  Nellie  Wynn,  which  he  had  hurriedly 
begged  from  her  under  the  pretext  of  clothing  the  wife  of 
a  distressed  overland  emigrant  then  on  the  way  to  the 
mines.  Although  he  had  satisfied  his  conscience  with  the 
intention  of  confessing  the  pious  fraud  to  her  when  Te 
resa  was  gone  and  safe  from  pursuit,  it  was  not  without 
a  sense  of  remorse  that  he  witnessed  the  sacrilegious 
transformation.  The  two  women  were  nearly  the  same 
height  and  size;  and  although  Teresa's  maturer  figure  ac 
cented  the  outlines  more  strongly,  it  was  still  becoming 
enough  to  increase  his  irritation. 

Of  this  becomingness  she  was  doubtless  unaware  at  the 
moment  that  he  surprised  her.  She  was  conscious  of 
having  "a  change,"  and  this  had  emboldened  her  to  "do 
her  hair"  and  otherwise  compose  hers'elf.  After  their 
greeting  she  was  the  first  to  allude  to  the  dress,  re 
gretting  that  it  was  not  more  of  a  rough  disguise,  and 
that,  as  she  must  now  discard  the  national  habit  of  wear 
ing  her  shawl  "manta"  fashion  over  her  head,  she  wanted 
a  hat.  "But  you  must  not,"  she  said,  "borrow  any  more 
dresses  for  me  from  your  young  woman.  Buy  them  for 
me  at  some  shop.  They  left  me  enough  money  for  that." 
Low  gently  put  aside  the  few  pieces  of  gold  she  had 


312  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

drawn  from  her  pocket,  and  briefly  reminded  her  of  the 
suspicion  such  a  purchase  by  him  would  produce.  "That's 
so,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "Caramba !  what  a  mule  I'm 
becoming !  Ah !  wait  a  moment.  I  have  it !  Buy  me  a 
common  felt  hat — a  man's  hat — as  if  for  yourself,  as  a 
change  to  that  animal,"  pointing  to  the  fox-tailed  cap  he 
wore  summer  and  winter,  "and  I'll  show  you  a  trick.  I 
haven't  run  a  theatrical  wardrobe  for  nothing."  Nor  had 
she,  for  the  hat  thus  procured,  a  few  days  later,  became, 
by  the  aid  of  a  silk  handkerchief  and  a  bluejay's  feather,  a 
fascinating  "pork  pie." 

Whatever  cause  of  annoyance  to  Low  still  lingered  in 
Teresa's  dress,  it  was  soon  forgotten  in  a  palpable  evi 
dence  of  Teresa's  value  as  a  botanical  assistant.  It  ap 
peared  that  during  the  afternoon  she  had  not  only 
duplicated  his  specimens,  but  had  discoverd  one  or  two 
rare  plants  as  yet  unclassified  in  the  flora  of  the  Carquinez 
Woods.  He  was  delighted,  and  in  turn,  over  the  camp- 
fire,  yielded  up  some  details  of  his  present  life  and  some  of 
his  earlier  recollections. 

"You  don't  remember  anything  of  your  father?"  she 
asked.  "Did  he  ever  try  to  seek  you  out  ?" 

"No !  Why  should  he  ?"  replied  the  imperturbable 
Low;  "he  was  not  a  Cherokee." 

"No,  he  was  a  beast,"  responded  Teresa  promptly. 
"And  your  mother — do  you  remember  her  ?" 

"No,  I  think  she  died." 

"You  think  she  died?    Don't  you  know?" 

"No !" 

"Then  you're  another !"  said  Teresa.  Notwithstanding 
this  frankness,  they  shook  hands  for  the  night:  Teresa 
nestling  like  a  rabbit  in  a  hollow  by  the  side  of  the  camp- 
fire;  Low  with  his  feet  towards  it,  Indian-wise,  and  his 
head  and  shoulders  pillowed  on  his  haversack,  only  half 
distinguishable  in  the  darkness  beyond. 

With  such  trivial  details  three  uneventful  days  slipped 
by.  Their  retreat  was  undisturbed,  nor  could  Low  detect, 
by  the  least  evidence  to  his  acute  perceptive  faculties,  that 
any  intruding  feet  had  since  crossed  the  belt  of  shade. 
The  echoes  of  passing  events  at  Indian  Spring  had  re- 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  313 

corded  the  escape  of  Teresa  as  occurring  at  a  remote  and 
purely  imaginative  distance,  and  her  probable  direction 
the  county  of  Yolo. 

"Can  you  remember,"  he  one  day  asked  her,  "what  time 
it  was  when  you  cut  the  riata  and  got  away?" 

Teresa  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  eyes  and  temples. 

"About  three,  I  reckon." 

"And  you  were  here  at  seven;  you  could  have  covered 
some  ground  in  four  hours?" 

"Perhaps — I  don't  know,"  she  said,  her  voice  taking  up 
its  old  quality  again.  "Don't  ask  me — I  ran  all  the  way." 

Her  face  was  quite  pale  as  she  removed  her  hands  from 
her  eyes,  and  her  breath  came  as  quickly  as  if  she  had 
just  finished  that  race  for  life. 

"Then  you  think  I  am  safe  here?"  she  added,  after  a 
pause. 

"Perfectly — until  they  find  you  are  not  in  Yolo.  Then 
they'll  look  here.  And  that's  the  time  for  you  to  go  there" 
Teresa  smiled  timidly. 

"It  will  take  them  some  time  to  search  Yolo — unless," 
she  added,  "you're  tired  of  me  here."  The  charming  non 
sequitur  did  not,  however,  seem  to  strike  the  young  man. 
"I've  got  time  yet  to  find  a  few  more  plants  for  you,"  she 
suggested. 

"Oh,  certainly!" 

"And  give  you  a  few  more  lessons  in  cooking." 

"Perhaps." 

The  conscientious  and  literal  Low  was  beginning  to 
doubt  if  she  were  really  practical.  How  otherwise  could 
she  trifle  with  such  a  situation? 

It  must  be  confessed  that  that  day  and  the  next  she  did 
trifle  with  it.  She  gave  herself  up  to  a  grave  and 
delicious  languor  that  seemed  to  flow  from  shadow  and 
silence  and  permeate  her  entire  being.  She  passed  hours 
in  a  thoughtful  repose  of  mind  and  spirit  that  seemed  to 
fall  like  balm  from  those  steadfast  guardians,  and  distill 
their  gentle  ether  in  her  soul;  or  breathed  into  her  lis 
tening  ear  immunity  from  the  forgotten  past,  and  security 
for  the  present.  If  there  was  no  dream  of  the  future  in 
this  calm,  even  recurrence  of  placid  existence,  so  much  the 


314  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

better.  The  simple  details  of  each  succeeding  day,  the 
quaint  housekeeping,  the  brief  companionship  and  coming 
and  going  of  her  young  host — himself  at  best  a  crystal 
lized  personification  of  the  sedate  and  hospitable  woods — 
satisfied  her  feeble  cravings.  She  no  longer  regretted  the 
inferior  position  that  her  fears  had  obliged  her  to  take  the 
first  night  she  came ;  she  began  to  look  up  to  this  young 
man — so  much  younger  than  herself — without  knowing 
what  it  meant ;  it  was  not  until  she  found  that  this  attitude 
did  not  detract  from  his  picturesqueness  that  she  dis 
covered  herself  seeking  for  reasons  to  degrade  him  from 
this  seductive  eminence. 

A  week  had  elapsed  with  little  change.  On  two  days  he 
had  been  absent  all  day,  returning  only  in  time  to  sup  in 
the  hollow  tree,  which,  thanks  to  the  final  removal  of  the 
dead  bear  from  its  vicinity,  was  now  considered  a  safer 
retreat  than  the  exposed  camp-fire.  On  the  first  of  these 
occasions  she  received  him  with  some  preoccupation,  pay 
ing  but  little  heed  to  the  scant  gossip  he  brought  from  In 
dian  Spring,  and  retiring  early  under  the  plea  of  fatigue, 
that  he  might  seek  his  own  distant  camp-fire,  which, 
thanks  to  her  stronger  nerves  and  regained  courage,  sh<« 
no  longer  required  so  near.  On  the  second  occasion,  he 
found  her  writing  a  letter  more  or  less  blotted  with  her 
tears.  When  it  was  finished,  she  begged  him  to  post  it  at 
Indian  Spring,  where  in  two  days  an  answer  would  be 
returned,  under  cover,  to  him. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  satisfied  then,"  she  added. 

"Satisfied  with  what?"  queried  the  young  man. 

"You'll  see,"  she  replied,  giving  him  her  cold  hand. 
"Good-night." 

"But  can't  you  tell  me  now  ?"  he  remonstrated,  retaining 
her  hand. 

"Wait  two  days  longer — it  isn't  much,"  was  all  she 
vouchsafed  to  answer. 

The  two  days  passed.  Their  former  confidence  and 
good  fellowship  were  fully  restored  when  the  morning 
came  on  which  he  was  to  bring  the  answer  from  the 
post-office  at  Indian  Spring.  He  had  talked  again  of  his 
future,  and  had  recorded  his  ambition  to  procure  the  ap- 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  316 

pointment  of  naturalist  to  a  Government  Surveying  Ex 
pedition.  She  had  even  jocularly  proposed  to  dress 
herself  in  man's  attire  and  "enlist"  as  his  assistant. 

"But  you  will  be  safe  with  your  friends,  I  hope,  by 
that  time,"  responded  Low. 

"Safe  with  my  friends,"  she  repeated  in  a  lower  voice. 
"Safe  with  my  friends — yes !"  An  awkward  silence  fol 
lowed  ;  Teresa  broke  it  gayly :  "But  your  girl,  your  sweet 
heart,  my  benefactor — will  she  let  you  go?" 

"I  haven't  told  her  yet,"  said  Low,  gravely,  "but  I  don't 
see  why  she  should  object." 

"Object,  indeed !"  interrupted  Teresa  in  a  high  voice 
and  a  sudden  and  utterly  gratuitous  indignation;  "how 
should  she?  I'd  like  to  see  her  do  it!" 

She  accompanied  him  some  distance  to  the  intersection 
of  the  trail,  where  they  parted  in  good  spirits.  On  the 
dusty  plain  without  a  gale  was  blowing  that  rocked  the 
high  tree-tops  above  her,  but,  tempered  and  subdued, 
entered  the  low  aisles  with  a  fluttering  breath  of  morning 
and  a  sound  like  the  cooing  of  doves.  Never  had  the 
wood  before  shown  so  sweet  a  sense  of  security  from  the 
turmoil  and  tempest  of  the  world  beyond;  never  before 
had  an  intrusion  from  the  outer  life — even  in  the  shape 
of  a  letter — seemed  so  wicked  a  desecration.  Tempted 
by  the  solicitation  of  air  and  shade,  she  lingered,  with 
Low's  herbarium  slung  on  her  shoulder. 

A  strange  sensation,  like  a  shiver,  suddenly  passed 
across  her  nerves,  and  left  them  in  a  state  of  rigid 
tension.  With  every  sense  morbidly  acute,  with  every 
faculty  strained  to  its  utmost,  the  subtle  instincts  of 
Low's  woodcraft  transformed  and  possessed  her.  She 
knew  it  now !  A  new  element  was  in  the  wood — a  strange 
being — another  life — another  man  approaching!  She  did 
not  even  raise  her  head  to  look  about  her,  but  darted 
with  the  precision  and  fleetness  of  an  arrow  in  the  direc 
tion  of  her  tree.  But  her  feet  were  arrested,  her  limbs 
paralzyed,  her  very  existence  suspended,  by  the  sound  of 
a  voice : — 

"Teresa !" 

It  was  a  voice  that  had  rung  in  her  ears  for  the  last 


316  IN   THE   CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

two  years  in  all  phases  of  intensity,  passion,  tenderness, 
and  anger;  a  voice  upon  whose  modulations,  rude  and 
unmusical  though  they  were,  her  heart  and  soul  had  hung 
in  transport  or  anguish.  But  it  was  a  chime  that  had 
rung  its  last  peal  to  her  senses  as  she  entered  the 
Carquinez  Woods,  and  for  the  last  week  had  been  as  dead 
to  her  as  a  voice  from  the  grave.  It  was  the  voice  of  her 
lover — Dick  Curson ! 

CHAPTER  V 

THE  wind  was  blowing  towards  the  stranger,  so  that 
he  was  nearly  upon  her  when  Teresa  first  took  the  alarm. 
He  was  a  man  over  six  feet  in  height,  strongly  built,  with 
a  slight  tendency  to  a  roundness  of  bulk  which  suggested 
reserved  rather  than  impeded  energy.  His  thick  beard 
and  mustache  were  closely  cropped  around  a  small  and 
handsome  mouth  that  lisped  except  when  he  was  excited, 
but  always  kept  fellowship  with  his  blue  eyes  in  a  per 
petual  smile  of  half-cynical  good-humor.  His  dress  was 
superior  to  that  of  the  locality;  his  general  expression 
that  of  a  man  of  the  world,  albeit  a  world  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  Sacramento,  and  Murderer's  Bar.  He  advanced 
towards  her  with  a  laugh  and  an  outstretched  hand. 

"You  here !"  she  gasped,  drawing  back. 

Apparently  neither  surprised  nor  mortified  at  this  re 
ception,  he  answered  frankly,  "Yeth.  You  didn't  expect 
me,  I  know.  But  Doloreth  showed  me  the  letter  you 
wrote  her,  and — well — here  I  am,  ready  to  help  you,  with 
two  men  and  a  thpare  horthe  waiting  outside  the  woodth 
on  the  blind  trail." 

"You — you — here?"  she  only  repeated. 

Curson  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Yeth."  Of  courth 
you  never  expected  to  thee  me  again,  and  leatht  of  all 
here.  I'll  admit  that;  I'll  thay  I  wouldn't  if  I'd  been  in 
your  plathe.  I'll  go  further,  and  thay  you  didn't  want  to 
thee  me  again — anywhere.  But  it  all  cometh  to  the 
thame  thing;  here  I  am.  I  read  the  letter  you  wrote 
Doloreth.  I  read  how  you  were  hiding  here,  under 
Dunn'th  very  nothe,  with  his  whole  pothe  out,  cavorting 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  317 

round  and  barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  come  down  here  with  a  few  nathty  friends  of 
mine  and  cut  you  out  under  Dunn'th  nothe,  and  run  you 
over  into  Yuba — that'th  all." 

"How  dared  she  show  you  my  letter — you  of  all  men? 
How  dared  she  ask  your  help  ?"  continued  Teresa,  fiercely. 

"But  she  didn't  athk  my  help,"  he  responded  coolly. 

"D d  if  I  don't  think  she  jutht  calculated  I'd  be  glad 

to  know  you  were  being  hunted  down  and  thtarving,  that 
I  might  put  Dunn  on  your  track." 

"You  lie !"  said  Teresa,  furiously ;  "she  was  my  friend. 
A  better  friend  than  those  who  professed — more,"  she 
added,  with  a  contemptuous  drawing  away  of  her  skirt 
as  if  she  feared  Curson's  contamination. 

"All  right.  Thettle  that  with  her  when  you  go  back," 
continued  Curson  philosophically.  "We  can  talk  of  that 
on  the  way.  The  thing  now  ith  to  get  up  and  get  out  of 
thethe  woods.  Come !" 

Teresa's  only  reply  was  a  gesture  of  scorn. 

"I  know  all  that,"  continued  Curson  half  soothingly, 
"but  they're  waiting." 

"Let  them  wait.     I  shall  not  go." 

"What  will  you  do  ?" 

"Stay  here — till  the  wolves  eat  me." 

"Teresa,  listen.  D it  all — Teresa — Tita  !  see  here," 

he  said  with  sudden  energy.  "I  swear  to  God  it's  all 
right.  I'm  willing  to  let  by-gones  be  by-gones  and  take  a 
new  deal.  You  shall  come  back  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened,  and  take  your  old  place  as  before.  I  don't  mind 
doing  the  square  thing,  all  round.  If  that's  what  you 
mean,  if  that's  all  that  stands  in  the  way,  why,  look  upon 
the  thing  as  settled.  There,  Tita,  old  girl,  come." 

Careless  or  oblivious  of  her  stony  silence  and  starting 
eyes,  he  attempted  to  take  her  hand.  But  she  disengaged 
herself  with  a  quick  movement,  drew  back,  and  suddenly 
crouched  like  a  wild  animal  about  to  spring.  Curson 
folded  his  arms  as  she  leaped  to  her  feet ;  the  little  dagger 
she  had  drawn  from  her  garter  flashed  menacingly  in  the 
air,  but  she  stopped. 

The   man   before  her   remained  erect,   impassive,   and 


818  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

silent;  the  great  trees  around  and  beyond  her  remained 
erect,  impassive,  and  silent;  there  was  no  sound  in  the 
dim  aisles  but  the  quick  panting  of  her  mad  passion,  no 
movement  in  the  calm,  motionless  shadow  but  the 
trembling  of  her  uplifted  steel.  Her  arm  bent  and  slowly 
sank,  her  fingers  relaxed,  the  knife  fell  from  her  hand. 

'That'th  quite  enough  for  a  thow,"  he  said,  with  a  re 
turn  to  his  former  cynical  ease  and  a  perceptible  tone  of 
relief  in  his  voice.  "It'th  the  thame  old  Theretha.  Well, 
then,  if  you  won't  go  with  me,  go  without  ma;  take  the 
led  horthe  and  cut  away.  Dick  Athley  and  Petereth  will 
follow  you  over  the  county  line.  If  you  want  thome 
money,  there  it  ith."  He  took  a  buckskin  purse  from  his 
pocket.  "If  you  won't  take  it  from  me — "  he  hesitated  as 
she  made  no  reply — "Athley'th  flush  and  ready  to  lend 
you  thome." 

She  had  not  seemed  to  hear  him,  but  had  stooped  in 
some  embarrassment,  picked  up  the  knife  and  hastily  hid 
it,  then  with  averted  face  and  nervous  fingers  was  begin 
ning  to  tear  strips  of  loose  bark  from  the  nearest  trunk. 

"Well,  what  do  you  thay?" 

"I  don't  want  any  money,  and  I  shall  stay  here."  She 
hesitated,  looked  around  her,  and  then  added,  with  an 
effort,  "I  suppose  you  meant  well.  Be  it  so !  Let  by-gones 
be  by-gones.  You  said  just  now,  'It's  the  same  old 
Teresa.'  So  she  is,  and  seeing  she's  the  same  she's  better 
here  than  anywhere  else." 

There  was  enough  bitterness  in  her  tone  to  call  for 
Curson's  half-perfunctory  sympathy. 

"That  be  d d,"  he  responded  quickly.  "Jutht  thay 

you'll  come,  Tita,  and — " 

She  stopped  his  half-spoken  sentence  with  a  negative 
gesture.  "You  don't  understand.  I  shall  stay  here." 

"But  even  if  they  don't  theek  you  here,  you  can't  live 
here  forever.  The  friend  that  you  wrote  about  who  wath 
tho  good  to  you,  you  know,  can't  keep  you  here  alwayth; 
and  are  you  thure  you  can  alwayth  trutht  her?" 

"It  isn't  a  woman ;  it's  a  man."  She  stopped  short, 
and  colored  to  the  line  of  her  forehead.  "Who  said  it 
was  a  woman?"  she  continued  fiercely,  as  if  to  cover  her 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  319 

confusion  with  a  burst  of  gratuitous  anger.  "Is  that 
another  of  your  lies?" 

Curson's  lips,  which  for  a  moment  had  completely  lost 
their  smile,  were  now  drawn  together  in  a  prolonged 
whistle.  He  gazed  curiously  at  her  gown,  at  her  hat,  at 
the  bow  of  bright  ribbon  that  tied  her  black  hair,  and 
said,  "Ah !" 

"A  poor  man  who  has  kept  my  secret,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly — "a  man  as  friendless  and  lonely  as  myself. 
Yes,"  disregarding  Curson's  cynical  smile,  "a  man  who 
has  shared  everything — " 

"Naturally,"   suggested  Curson. 

"And  turned  himself  out  of  his  only  shelter  to  give  me 
a  roof  and  covering,"  she  continued  mechanically,  strug 
gling  with  the  new  and  horrible  fancy  that  his  words 
awakened. 

"And  thlept  every  night  at  Indian  Thpring  to  save  your 
reputation,"  said  Curson.  "Of  courthe." 

Teresa  turned  very  white.  Curson  was  prepared  for 
an  outburst  of  fury — perhaps  even  another  attack.  But 
the  crushed  and  beaten  woman  only  gazed  at  him  with 
frightened  and  imploring  eyes.  "For  God's  sake,  Dick, 
don't  say  that !" 

The  amiable  cynic  was  staggered.  His  good-humor 
and  a  certain  chivalrous  instinct  he  could  not  repress  got 
the  better  of  him.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  I 
thay,  and  what  you  do,  Teretha,  needn't  make  us  quarrel. 
I've  no  claim  on  you — I  know  it.  Only — "  a  vivid  sense 
of  the  ridiculous,  powerful  in  men  of  his  stamp,  completed 
her  victory — "only  don't  thay  anything  about  my  coming 
down  here  to  cut  you  out  from  the — the — the  sheriff." 
He  gave  utterance  to  a  short  but  unaffected  laugh,  made 
a  slight  grimace,  and  turned  to  go. 

Teresa  did  not  join  in  his  mirth.  Awkward  as  it 
would  have  been  if  he  had  taken  a  severer  view  of  the 
subject,  she  was  mortified  even  amidst  her  fears  and  em 
barrassment  at  his  levity.  Just  as  she  had  become  con 
vinced  that  his  jealousy  had  made  her  over-conscious,  his 
apparent  good-humored  indifference  gave  that  over-con 
sciousness  a  guilty  significance.  Yet  this  was  lost  in  her 


320  IN    THE    CAKQUINEZ    WOODS 

sudden  alarm  as  her  companion,  looking  up,  uttered  an 
exclamation,  and  placed  his  hand  upon  his  revolver. 
With  a  sinking  conviction  that  the  climax  had  come, 
Teresa  turned  her  eyes.  From  the  dim  aisles  beyond,  Low 
was  approaching.  The  catastrophe  seemed  complete. 

She  had  barely  time  to  utter  an  imploring  whisper : 
"In  the  name  of  God,  not  a  word  to  him."  But  a  change 
had  already  come  over  her  companion.  It  was  no  longer 
a  parley  with  a  foolish  woman;  he  had  to  deal  with  a 
man  like  himself.  As  Low's  dark  face  and  picturesque 
figure  came  nearer,  Mr.  Curson's  proposed  method  of 
dealing  with  him  was  made  audible. 

"Ith  it  a  mulatto  or  a  Thircuth,  or  both?"  he  asked, 
with  affected  anxiety. 

Low's  Indian  phlegm  was  impervious  to  such  assault. 
He  turned  to  Teresa,  without  apparently  noticing  her 
companion.  "I  turned  back,"  he  said  quietly,  "as  soon  as 
I  knew  there  were  strangers  here;  I  thought  you  might 
need  me."  She  noticed  for  the  first  time  that,  in  addition 
to  his  rifle,  he  carried  a  revolver  and  hunting  knife  in 
his  belt. 

"Yeth,"  returned  Curson,  with  an  ineffectual  attempt 
to  imitate  Low's  phlegm;  "but  ath  I  didn't  happen  to  be 
a  sthranger  to  this  lady,  perhaps  it  wathn't  nethethary, 
particularly  ath  I  had  two  friends — " 

"Waiting  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  with  a  led  horse," 
interrupted  Low,  without  addressing  him,  but  apparently 
continuing  his  explanation  to  Teresa.  But  she  turned  to 
Low  with  feverish  anxiety. 

"That's  so — he  is  an  old  friend — "  she  gave  a  quick, 
imploring  glance  at  Curson — "an  old  friend  who  came  to 
help  me  away — he  is  very  kind,"  she  stammered,  turning 
alternately  from  the  one  to  the  other;  "but  I  told  him 
there  was  no  hurry — at  least  to-day — that  you — were — 
very  good — too,  and  would  hide  me  a  little  longer,  until 
your  plan — you  know  your  plan,"  she  added,  with  a  look 
of  beseeching  significance  to  Low — "could  be  tried."  And 
then,  with  a  helpless  conviction  that  her  excuses,  motives, 
and  emotions  were  equally  and  perfectly  transparent  to 
both  men,  she  stopped  in  a  tremble. 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS  321 

"Perhapth  it  'th  jutht  ath  well,  then,  that  the  gentle 
man  came  thtraight  here,  and  didn't  tackle  my  two 
friendth  when  he  pathed  them,"  observed  Curson,  half 
sarcastically. 

"I  have  not  passed  your  friends,  nor  have  I  been  near 
them,"  said  Low,  looking  at  him  for  the  first  time,  with 
the  same  exasperating  calm,  "or  perhaps  I  should  not  be 
here  or  they  there.  I  knew  that  one  man  entered  the 
wood  a  few  moments  ago,  and  that  two  men  and  four 
horses  remained  outside." 

"That's  true,"  said  Teresa  to  Curson  excitedly — "that's 
true.  He  knows  all.  He  can  see  without  looking,  hear 
without  listening.  He — he — "  she  stammered,  colored, 
and  stopped. 

The  two  men  had  faced  each  other.  Curson,  after  his 
first  good-natured  impulse,  had  retained  no  wish  to  regain 
Teresa,  whom  he  felt  he  no  longer  loved,  and  yet  who, 
for  that  very  reason  perhaps,  had  awakened  his  chivalrous 
instincts.  Low,  equally  on  his  side,  was  altogether  un 
conscious  of  any  feeling  which  might  grow  into  a  passion, 
and  prevent  him  from  letting  her  go  with  another  if  for 
her  own  safety.  They  were  both  men  of  a  certain  taste 
and  refinement.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  some  vague 
instinct  of  the  baser  male  animal  remained  with  them, 
and  they  were  moved  to  a  mutually  aggressive  attitude  in 
the  presence  of  the  female. 

One  word  more,  and  the  opening  chapter  of  a  sylvan 
Iliad  might  have  begun.  But  this  modern  Helen  saw  it 
coming,  and  arrested  it  with  an  inspiration  of  feminine 
genius.  Without  being  observed,  she  disengaged  her 
knife  from  her  bosom  and  let  it  fall  as  if  by  accident. 
It  struck  the  ground  with  the  point  of  its  keen  blade, 
bounded  and  rolled  between  them.  The  two  men  started 
and  looked  at  each  other  with  a  foolish  air.  Curson 
laughed. 

"I  reckon  she  can  take  care  of  herthelf,"  he  said,  ex 
tending  his  hand  to  Low.  "I'm  off.  But  if  I'm  wanted 
she'll  know  where  to  find  me."  Low  took  the  proffered 
hand,  but  neither  of  the  two  men  looked  at  Teresa.  The 
reserve  of  antagonism  once  broken,  a  few  words  of 

II  V.   2 


322  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

caution,  advice,  and  encouragement  passed  between  them, 
in  apparent  obliviousness  of  her  presence  or  her  per 
sonal  responsibility.  As  Curson  at  last  nodded  a  fare 
well  to  herj  Low  insisted  upon  accompanying  him  as 
far  as  the  horses,  and  in  another  moment  she  was  again 
alone. 

She  had  saved  a  quarrel  between  them  at  the  sacrifice 
of  herself,  for  her  vanity  was  still  keen  enough  to  feel 
that  this  exhibition  of  her  old  weakness  had  degraded  her 
in  their  eyes,  and,  worse,  had  lost  the  respect  her  late 
restraint  had  won  from  Low.  They  had  treated  her  like 
a  child  or  a  crazy  woman,  perhaps  even  now  were  ex 
changing  criticisms  upon  her — perhaps  pitying  her !  Yet 
she  had  prevented  a  quarrel,  a  fight;  possibly  the  death 
of  either  one  or  the  other  of  these  men  who  despised  her, 
for  none  better  knew  than  she  the  trivial  beginning  and 
desperate  end  of  these  encounters.  Would  they — would 
Low  ever  realize  it,  and  forgive  her?  Her  small,  dark 
hands  went  up  to  her  eyes  and  she  sank  upon  the  ground. 
She  looked  through  tear-veiled  lashes  upon  the  mute  and 
giant  witnesses  of  her  deceit  and  passion,  and  tried  to 
draw,  from  their  immovable  calm,  strength  and  consola 
tion  as  before.  But  even  they  seemed  to  stand  apart, 
reserved  and  forbidding. 

When  Low  returned  she  hoped  to  gather  from  his  eyes 
and  manner  what  had  passed  between  him  and  her  former 
lover.  But  beyond  a  mere  gentle  abstraction  at  times  he 
retained  his  usual  calm.  She  was  at  last  forced  to  allude 
to  it  herself  with  simulated  recklessness. 

"I  suppose  I  didn't  get  a  very  good  character  from  my 
last  place?"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  replied,  in  evident 
sincerity. 

She  bit  her  lip  and  was  silent.  But  as  they  were 
returning  home,  she  said  gently,  "I  hope  you  were  not 
angry  with  me  for  the  lie  I  told  when  I  spoke  of  'your 
plan.'  I  could  not  give  the  real  reason  for  not  returning 
with — with — that  man.  But  it's  not  all  a  lie.  I  have 
a  plan — if  you  haven't.  When  you  are  ready  to  go  to 
Sacramento  to  take  your  place,  dress  me  as  an  Indian 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

boy,  paint  my  face,  and  let  me  go  with  you.  You  can 
leave  me — there — you  know." 

"It's  not  a  bad  idea/'  he  responded  gravely.  "We 
will  see." 

On  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  the  rencontre  seemed  to 
be  forgotten.  The  herbarium  was  already  filled  with  rare 
specimens.  Teresa  had  even  overcome  her  feminine  re 
pugnance  to  "bugs"  and  creeping  things  so  far  as  to 
assist  in  his  entomological  collection.  He  had  drawn 
from  a  sacred  cache  in  the  hollow  of  a  tree  the  few  worn 
text-books  from  which  he  had  studied. 

"They  seem  very  precious,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"Very,"  he  replied  gravely.  "There  was  one  with 
plates  that  the  ants  ate  up.  and  it  will  be  six  months 
before  I  can  afford  to  buy  another." 

Teresa  glanced  hurriedly  over  his  well-worn  buckskin 
suit,  at  his  calico  shirt  with  its  pattern  almost  obliterated 
by  countless  washings,  and  became  thoughtful. 

"I  suppose  you  couldn't  buy  one  at  Indian  Spring?"  she 
said  innocently. 

For  once  Low  was  startled  out  of  his  phlegm.  "Indian 
Spring!"  he  ejaculated;  "perhaps  not  even  in  San  Fran 
cisco.  These  came  from  the  States." 

"How  did  you  get  them?"  persisted  Teresa. 

"I  bought  them  for  skins  I  got  over  the  ridge." 

"I  didn't  mean  that — but  no  matter.  Then  you  mean 
to  sell  that  bearskin,  don't  you?"  she  added. 

Low  had,  in  fact,  already  sold  it,  the  proceeds  having 
been  invested  in  a  gold  ring  for  Miss  Nellie,  which  she 
scrupulously  did  not  wear  except  in  his  presence.  In  his 
singular  truthfulness  he  would  have  frankly  confessed  it 
to  Teresa,  but  the  secret  was  not  his  own.  He  contented 
himself  with  saying  that  he  had  disposed  of  it  at  Indian 
Spring. 

Teresa  started,  and  communicated  unconsciously  some 
of  her  nervousness  to  her  companion.  They  gazed  in 
each  other's  eyes  with  a  troubled  expression. 

"Do  you  think  it  was  wise  to  sell  that  particular  skin, 
which  might  be  identified?"  she  asked  timidly. 

Low  knitted  his  arched  brows,  but  felt  a  strange  sense 


324:  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

of  relief.  "Perhaps  not,"  he  said  carelessly;  "but  it's 
too  late  now  to  mend  matters." 

That  afternoon  she  wrote  several  letters,  and  tore  them 
up.  One,  however,  she  retained,  and  handed  it  to  Low  to 
post  at  Indian  Spring,  whither  he  was  going.  She  called 
his  attention  to  the  superscription,  being  the  same  as  the 
previous  letter,  and  added,  with  affected  gayety,  "But  if 
the  answer  isn't  as  prompt,  perhaps  it  will  be  pleasanter 
than  the  last."  Her  quick  feminine  eye  noticed  a  little 
excitement  in  his  manner  and  a  more  studious  attention 
to  his  dress.  Only  a  few  days  before  she  would  not  have 
allowed  this  to  pass  without  some  mischievous  allusion 
to  his  mysterious  sweetheart;  it  troubled  her  greatly  now 
to  find  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  this  household 
pleasantry,  and  that  her  lip  trembled  and  her  eye  grew 
moist  as  he  parted  from  her. 

The  afternoon  passed  slowly ;  he  had  said  he  might  not 
return  to  supper  until  late,  nevertheless  a  strange  rest 
lessness  took  possession  of  her  as  the  day  wore  on.  She 
put  aside  her  work,  the  darning  of  his  stockings,  and 
rambled  aimlessly  through  the  woods.  She  had  wandered 
she  knew  not  how  far,  when  she  was  suddenly  seized  with 
the  same  vague  sense  of  a  foreign  presence  which  she 
had  felt  before.  Could  it  be  Curson  again,  with  a  word 
of  warning?  No!  she  knew  it  was  not  he;  so  subtle 
had  her  sense  become  that  she  even  fancied  that  she 
detected  in  the  invisible  aura  projected  by  the  unknown 
no  significance  or  relation  to  herself  or  Low,  and  felt  no 
fear.  Nevertheless  she  deemed  it  wisest  to  seek  the  pro 
tection  of  her  sylvan  bower,  and  hurried  swiftly  thither. 

But  not  so  quickly  nor  directly  that  she  did  not  once 
or  twice  pause  in  her  flight  to  examine  the  new-comer 
from  behind  a  friendly  trunk.  He  was  a  stranger — a 
young  fellow  with  a  brown  mustache,  wearing  heavy 
Mexican  spurs  in  his  riding-boots,  whose  tinkling  he  ap 
parently  did  not  care  to  conceal.  He  had  perceived  her, 
and  was  evidently  pursuing  her,  but  so  awkwardly  and 
timidly  that  she  eluded  him  with  ease.  When  she  had 
reached  the  security  of  the  hollow  tree  and  pulled  the 
curtain  of  bark  before  the  narrow  opening,  with  her  eye 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS  325 

to  the  interstices,  she  waited  his  coming.  He  arrived 
breathlessly  in  the  open  space  before  the  tree  where  the 
bear  once  lay ;  the  dazed,  bewildered,  and  half-awed  ex 
pression  of  his  face,  as  he  glanced  around  him  and 
through  the  openings  of  the  forest  aisles,  brought  a  faint 
smile  to  her  saddened  face.  At  last  he  called  in  a  half- 
embarrassed  voice : — 

"Miss  Nellie!" 

The  smile  faded  from  Teresa's  cheek.  Who  was  "Miss 
Nellie?"  She  pressed  her  ear  to  the  opening.  "Miss 
Wynn !"  the  voice  again  called,  but  was  lost  in  the 
echoless  woods.  Devoured  with  a  new  gratuitous  curi 
osity,  in  another  moment  Teresa  felt  she  would  have  dis 
closed  herself  at  any  risk,  but  the  stranger  rose  and 
began  to  retrace  his  steps.  Long  after  his  tinkling  spurs 
were  lost  in  the  distance,  Teresa  remained  like  a  statue, 
staring  at  the  place  where  he  had  stood.  Then  she  sud 
denly  turned  like  a  mad  woman,  glanced  down  at  the 
gown  she  was  wearing,  tore  it  from  her  back  as  if  it  had 
been  a  polluted  garment,  and  stamped  upon  it  in  a  con 
vulsion  of  rage.  And  then,  with  her  beautiful  bare  arms 
clasped  together  over  her  head,  she  threw  herself  upon 
her  couch  in  a  tempest  of  tears. 


CHAPTER   VI 

WHEN  Miss  Nellie  reached  the  first  mining  extension 
of  Indian  Spring,  which  surrounded  it  like  a  fosse,  she 
descended  for  one  instant  into  one  of  its  trenches,  opened 
her  parasol,  removed  her  duster,  hid  it  under  a  bowlder, 
and  with  a  few  shivers  and  cat-like  strokes  of  her  soft 
hands  not  only  obliterated  all  material  traces  of  the  stolen 
cream  of  Carquinez  Woods,  but  assumed  a  feline  demure- 
ness  quite  inconsistent  with  any  moral  dereliction.  Un 
fortunately,  she  forgot  to  remove  at  the  same  time  a 
certain  ring  from  her  third  finger,  which  she  had  put 
on  with  her  duster  and  had  worn  at  no  other  time.  With 
this  slight  exception,  the  benignant  fate  which  always 
protected  that  young  person  brought  her  in  contact  with 


326  IN   THE    CAEQUINEZ    WOODS 

the  Burnham  girls  at  one  end  of  the  main  street  as  the 
returning  coach  to  Excelsior  entered  the  other,  and 
enabled  her  to  take  leave  of  them  before  the  coach  office 
with  a  certain  ostentation  of  parting  which  struck  Mr. 
Jack  Brace,  who  was  lingering  at  the  doorway,  into  a 
state  of  utter  bewilderment. 

Here  was  Miss  Nellie  Wynn,  the  belle  of  Excelsior, 
calm,  quiet,  self-possessed,  her  chaste  cambric  skirts  and 
dainty  shoes  as  fresh  as  when  she  had  left  her  father's 
house ;  but  where  was  the  woman  of  the  brown  duster, 
and  where  the  yellow-dressed  apparition  of  the  woods  ? 
He  was  feebly  repeating  to  himself  his  mental  adjuration 
of  a  few  hours  before  when  he  caught  her  eye,  and  was 
taken  with  a  blush  and  a  fit  of  coughing.  Could  he  have 
been  such  an  egregious  fool,  and  was  it  not  plainly  writ 
ten  on  his  embarrassed  face  for  her  to  read? 

"Are  we  going  down  together?"  asked  Miss  Nellie 
with  an  exceptionally  gracious  smile. 

There  was  neither  affectation  nor  coquetry  in  this  ad 
vance.  The  girl  had  no, idea  of  Brace's  suspicion  of  her, 
nor  did  any  uneasy  desire  to  placate  or  deceive  a  possible 
rival  of  Low's  prompt  her  graciousness.  She  simply 
wished  to  shake  off  in  this  encounter  the  already  stale 
excitement  of  the  past  two  hours,  as  she  had  shaken  the 
dust  of  the  woods  from  her  clothes.  It  was  characteristic 
of  her  irresponsible  nature  and  transient  susceptibilities 
that  she  actually  enjoyed  the  relief  of  change;  more  than 
that.  I  fear,  she  looked  upon  this  infidelity  to  a  past 
dubious  pleasure  as  a  moral  principle.  A  mild,  open 
flirtation  with  a  recognized  man  like  Brace,  after  her 
secret  passionate  tryst  with  a  nameless  nomad  like  Low, 
was  an  ethical  equipoise  that  seemed  proper  to  one  of  her 
religious  education. 

Brace  was  only  too  happy  to  profit  by  Miss  Nellie's  con 
descension;  he  at  once  secured  the  seat  by  her  side,  and 
spent  the  four  hours  and  a  half  of  their  return  journey  to 
Excelsior  in  blissful  but  timid  communion  with  her.  If  he 
did  not  dare  to  confess  his  past  suspicions,  he  was  equally 
afraid  to  venture  upon  the  boldness  he  had  premeditated 
a  few  hours  before.  He  was  therefore  obliged  to  take  a 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  327 

middle  course  of  slightly  egotistical  narration  of  his  own 
personal  adventures,  with  which  he  beguiled  the  young 
girl's  ear.  This  he  only  departed  from  once,  to  describe 
to  her  a  valuable  grizzly  bearskin  which  he  had  seen  that 
day  for  sale  at  Indian  Spring,  with  a  view  to  divining 
her  possible  acceptance  of  it  for  a  "buggy  robe;"  and 
once  to  comment  upon  a  ring  which  she  had  inadvertently 
disclosed  in  pulling  off  her  glove. 

"It's  only  an  old  family  keepsake,"  she  added,  with  easy 
mendacity;  and  affecting  to  recognize  in  Mr.  Brace's 
curiosity  a  not  unnatural  excuse  for  toying  with  her 
charming  fingers,  she  hid  them  in  chaste  and  virginal  se 
clusion  in  her  lap,  until  she  could  recover  the  ring  and 
resume  her  glove. 

A  week  passed — a  week  of  peculiar  and  desiccating  heat 
for  even  those  dry  Sierra  table-lands.  The  long  days 
were  filled  with  impalpable  dust  and  acrid  haze  suspended 
in  the  motionless  air;  the  nights  were  breathless  and 
dewless;  the  cold  wind  which  usually  swept  down  from 
the  snow  line  was  laid  to  slee'p  over  a  dark  monotonous 
level,  whose  horizon  was  pricked  with  the  eating  fires  of 
burning  forest  crests.  The  lagging  coach  of  Indian 
Spring  drove  up  at  Excelsior,  and  precipitated  its  pas 
sengers  with  an  accompanying  cloud  of  dust  before  the 
Excelsior  Hotel.  As  they  emerged  from  the  coach,  Mr. 
Brace,  standing  in  the  doorway,  closely  scanned  their 
begrimed  and  almost  unrecognizable  faces.  They  were 
the  usual  type  of  travelers :  a  single  professional  man  in 
dusty  black,  a  few  traders  in  tweeds  and  flannels,  a 
sprinkling  of  miners  in  red  and  gray  shirts,  a  Chinaman, 
a  negro,  and  a  Mexican  packer  or  muleteer.  This  latter 
for  a  moment  mingled  with  the  crowd  in  the  bar-room, 
and  even  penetrated  the  corridor  and  dining-room  of  the 
hotel,  as  if  impelled  by  a  certain  semi-civilized  curiosity, 
and  then  strolled  with  a  lazy,  dragging  step — half  im 
peded  by  the  enormous  leather  leggings,  chains,  and 
spurs,  peculiar  to  his  class — down  the  main  street.  The 
darkness  was  gathering,  but  the  muleteer  indulged  in  the 
same  childish  scrutiny  of  the  dimly  lighted  shops,  mag 
azines,  and  saloons,  and  even  of  the  occasional  groups  of 


328  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

citizens  at  the  street  corners.  Apparently  young,  as  far 
as  the  outlines  of  his  figure  could  be  seen,  he  seemed  to 
show  even  more  than  the  usual  concern  of  masculine  Ex 
celsior  in  the  charms  of  womankind.  The  few  female 
figures  about  at  that  hour,  or  visible  at  window  or 
veranda,  received  his  marked  attention;  he  respectfully 
followed  the  two  auburn-haired  daughters  of  Deacon 
Johnson  on  their  way  to  choir  meeting  to  the  door  of 
the  church.  Not  content  with  that  act  of  discreet  gal 
lantry,  after  they  had  entered  he  managed  to  slip  unper- 
ceived  behind  them. 

The  memorial  of  the  Excelsior  gamblers'  generosity 
was  a  modern  building,  large  and  pretentious,  for  even 
Mr.  Wynn's  popularity,  and  had  been  good-humoredly 
known,  in  the  characteristic  language  of  the  generous 
donors,  as  one  of  the  "biggest  religious  bluffs"  on  record. 
Its  groined  rafters,  which  were  so  new  and  spicy  that 
they  still  suggested  their  native  forest  aisles,  seldom 
covered  more  than  a  hundred  devotees,  and  in  the 
rambling  choir,  with  its  bare  space  for  the  future  organ, 
the  few  choristers,  gathered  round  a  small  harmonium, 
were  lost  in  the  deepening  shadow  of  that  summer 
evening.  The  muleteer  remained  hidden  in  the  obscurity 
of  the  vestibule.  After  a  few  moments'  desultory  con 
versation,  in  which  it  appeared  that  the  unexpected  ab 
sence  of  Miss  Nellie  Wynn,  their  leader,  would  prevent 
their  practicing,  the  choristers  withdrew.  The  stranger, 
who  had  listened  eagerly,  drew  back  in  the  darkness  as 
they  passed  out,  and  remained  for  a  few  moments  a 
vague  and  motionless  figure  in  the  silent  church.  Then 
coming  cautiously  to  the  window,  the  flapping  broad- 
brimmed  hat  was  put  aside,  and  the  faint  light  of  the 
dying  day  shone  in  the  black  eyes  of  Teresa!  Despite 
her  face,  darkened  with  dye  and  disfigured  with  dust,  the 
matted  hair  piled  and  twisted  around  her  head,  the  strange 
dress  and  boyish  figure,  one  swift  glance  from  under  her 
raised  lashes  betrayed  her  identity. 

She  turned  aside  mechanically  into  the  first  pew,  picked 
up  and  opened  a  hymn-book.  Her  eyes  became  riveted 
on  a  name  written  on  the  title-page,  "Nellie  Wynn." 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS  329 

Her  name,  and  her  book.  The  instinct  that  had  guided 
her  here  was  right;  the  slight  gossip  of  her  fellow-pas 
sengers  was  right;  this  was  the  clergyman's  daughter, 
whose  praise  filled  all  mouths.  This  was  the  unknown 
girl  the  stranger  was  seeking,  but  who  in  turn  perhaps 
had  been  seeking  Low — the  girl  who  absorbed  his  fancy — 
the  secret  of  his  absences,  his  preoccupation,  his  coldness ! 
This  was  the  girl  whom  to  see,  perhaps  in  his  arms, 
she  was  now  periling  her  liberty  and  her  life  unknown 
to  him !  A  slight  odor,  some  faint  perfume  of  its  owner, 
came  from  the  book;  it  was  the  same  she  had  noticed  in 
the  dress  Low  had  given  her.  She  flung  the  volume  to 
the  ground,  and,  throwing  her  arms  over  the  back  of  the 
pew  before  her,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

In  that  light  and  attitude  she  might  have  seemed  some 
rapt  acolyte  abandoned  to  self-communion.  But  what 
ever  yearning  her  soul  might  have  had  for  higher  sym 
pathy  or  deeper  consolation,  I  fear  that  the  spiritual 
Tabernacle  of  Excelsior  and  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wynn  did 
not  meet  that  requirement.  She  only  felt  the  dry,  oven- 
like  heat  of  that  vast  shell,  empty  of  sentiment  and  beauty, 
hollow  in  its  pretense  and  dreary  in  its  desolation.  She 
only  saw  in  it  a  chief  altar  for  the  glorification  of  this 
girl  who  had  absorbed  even  the  pure  worship  of  her  com 
panion,  and  converted  and  degraded  his  sublime  paganism 
to  her  petty  creed.  With  a  woman's  withering  contempt 
for  her  own  art  displayed  in  another  woman,  she  thought 
how  she  herself  could  have  touched  him  with  the  peace 
that  the  majesty  of  their  woodland  aisles — so  unlike  this 
pillared  sham — had  taught  her  own  passionate  heart,  had 
she  but  dared.  Mingling  with  this  imperfect  theology, 
she  felt  she  could  have  proved  to  him  also  that  a  brunette 
and  a  woman  of  her  experience  was  better  than  an  im 
mature  blonde.  She  began  to  loathe  herself  for  coming 
hither,  and  dreaded  to  meet  his  face.  Here  a  sudden 
thought  struck  her.  What  if  he  had  not  come  here? 
What  if  she  had  been  mistaken?  What  if  her  rash 
interpretation  of  his  absence  from  the  wood  that  night 
was  simple  madness?  What  if  he  should  return — if  he 
had  already  returned?  She  rose  to  her  feet,  whitening 


330  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

yet  joyful  with  the  thought.  She  could  return  at  once; 
what  was  the  girl  to  her  now?  Yet  there  was  time  to 
satisfy  herself  if  he  were  at  her  house.  She  had  been 
told  where  it  was;  she  could  find  it  in  the  dark;  an  open 
door  or  window  would  betray  some  sign  or  sound  of  the 
occupants.  She  rose,  replaced  her  hat  over  her  eyes, 
knotted  her  flaunting  scarf  around  her  throat,  groped  her 
way  to  the  door,  and  glided  into  the  outer  darkness. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  quite  dark  when  Mr.  Jack  Brace  stopped  before 
Father  Wynn's  open  door.  The  windows  were  also  in 
vitingly  open  to  the  wayfarer,  as  were  the  pastoral  coun 
sels  of  Father  Wynn,  delivered  to  some  favored  guest 
within,  in  a  tone  of  voice  loud  enough  for  a  pulpit.  Jack 
Brace  paused.  The  visitor  was  the  convalescent  sheriff, 
Jim  Dunn,  who  had  publicly  commemorated  his  recovery 
by  making  his  first  call  upon  the  father  of  his  inamorata. 
The  Reverend  Mr.  Wynn  had  been  expatiating  upon  the 
unremitting  heat  of  a  possible  precursor  of  forest  fires, 
and  exhibiting  some  catholic  knowledge  of  the  designs  of 
a  Deity  in  that  regard,  and  what  should  be  the  policy  of 
the  Legislature,  when  Mr.  Brace  concluded  to  enter.  Mr. 
Wynn  and  the  wounded  man,  who  occupied  an  arm-chair 
by  the  window,  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  room. 
But  in  spite  of  the  former's  ostentatious  greeting,  Brace 
could  see  that  his  visit  was  inopportune  and  unwelcome. 
The  sheriff  nodded  a  quick,  impatient  recognition,  which, 
had  it  not  been  accompanied  by  an  anathema  on  the  heat, 
might  have  been  taken  as  a  personal  insult.  Neither 
spoke  of  Miss  Nellie,  although  it  was  patent  to  Brace 
that  they  were  momentarily  expecting  her.  All  of  which 
went  far  to  strengthen  a  certain  wavering  purpose  in  his 
mind. 

"Ah,  ha!  strong  language,  Mr.  Dunn,"  said  Father 
Wynn,  referring  to  the  sheriff's  adjuration,  "but  'out  of 
the  fullness  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh.'  Job,  sir, 
cursed,  we  are  told,  and  even  expressed  himself  in  vigorous 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  331 

Hebrew  regarding  his  birthday.  Ha,  ha !  I'm  not  op 
posed  to  that.  When  I  have  often  wrestled  with  the 

spirit  I  confess  I  have  sometimes  said,  'D n  you.'  Yes, 

sir,  'D n  you.'  " 

There  was  something  so  unutterably  vile  in  the  rev 
erend  gentleman's  utterance  and  emphasis  of  this  oath 
that  the  two  men,  albeit  both  easy  and  facile  blasphemers, 
felt  shocked;  as  the  purest  of  actresses  is  apt  to  overdo 
the  rakishness  of  a  gay  Lothario,  Father  Wynn's  im 
maculate  conception  of  an  imprecation  was  something 
terrible.  But  he  added,  "The  law  ought  to  interfere  with 
the  reckless  use  of  camp-fires  in  the  woods  in  such 
weather  by  packers  and  prospectors." 

"It  isn't  so  much  the  work  of  white  men,"  broke  in 
Brace,  "as  it  is  of  Greasers,  Chinamen,  and  Diggers,  es 
pecially  Diggers.  There's  that  blasted  Low,  ranges  the 
whole  Carquinez  Woods  as  if  they  were  his.  I  reckon 
he  ain't  particular  just  where  he  throws  his  matches." 

"But  he's  not  a  Digger;  he's  a  Cherokee,  and  only  a 
half-breed  at  that,"  interpolated  Wynn.  "Unless,"  he 
added,  with  the  artful  suggestion  of  the  betrayed  trust 
of  a  too  credulous  Christian,  "he  deceived  me  in  this 
as  in  other  things." 

In  what  other  things  Low  had  deceived  him  he  did  not 
say ;  but,  to  the  astonishment  of  both  men,  Dunn  growled 
a  dissent  to  Brace's  proposition.  Either  from  some  se 
cret  irritation  with  that  possible  rival,  or  impatience  at 
the  prolonged  absence  of  Nellie,  he  had  "had  enough  of 
that  sort  of  hog-wash  ladled  out  to  him  for  genuine 
liquor."  As  to  the  Carquinez  Woods,  he  [Dunn]  "didn't 
know  why  Low  hadn't  as  much  right  there  as  if  he'd 
grabbed  it  under  a  preemption  law  and  didn't  live  there." 
With  this  hint  at  certain  speculations  of  Father  Wynn 
in  public  lands  for  a  homestead,  he  added  that  "If  they 
[Brace  and  Wynn]  could  bring  him  along  any  older 
American  settler  than  an  Indian,  they  might  rake  down 
his  [Dunn's]  pile."  Unprepared  for  this  turn  in  the  con 
versation,  Wynn  hastened  to  explain  that  he  did  not  refer 
to  the  pure  aborigine,  whose  gradual  extinction  no  one 
regretted  more  than  himself,  but  to  the  mongrel,  who 


332  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

inherited  only  the  vices  of  civilization.  "There  should 
be  a  law,  sir,  against  the  mingling  of  races.  There  are 
men,  sir,  who  violate  the  laws  of  the  Most  High  by  living 
with  Indian  women — squaw  men,  sir,  as  they  are  called." 

Dunn  rose  with  a  face  livid  with  weakness  and  pas 
sion.  "Who  dares  say  that?  They  are  a  d d  sight 

better  than  sneaking  Northern  Abolitionists,  who  married 
their  daughters  to  buck  niggers  like — "  But  a  spasm  of 
pain  withheld  this  Parthian  shot  at  the  politics  of  his 
two  companions,  and  he  sank  back  helplessly  in  his 
chair. 

An  awkward  silence  ensued.  The  three  men  looked  at 
each  other  in  embarrassment  and  confusion.  Dunn  felt 
that  he  had  given  way  to  a  gratuitous  passion ;  Wynn  had 
a  vague  presentiment  that  he  had  said  something  that 
imperiled  his  daughter's  prospects ;  and  Brace  was  divided 
between  an  angry  retort  and  the  secret  purpose  already 
alluded  to. 

"It's  all  the  blasted  heat,"  said  Dunn,  with  a  forced 
smile,  pushing  away  the  whisky  which  Wynn  had  os 
tentatiously  placed  before  him. 

"Of  course,"  said  Wynn  hastily;  "only  it's  a  pity  Nel 
lie  ain't  here  to  give  you  her  smelling-salts.  She  ought 
to  be  back  now,"  he  added,  no  longer  mindful  of  Brace's 
presence;  "the  coach  is  over-due  now,  though  I  reckon 
the  heat  made  Yuba  Bill  take  it  easy  at  the  up  grade." 

"If  you  mean  the  coach  from  Indian  Spring,"  said 
Brace  quietly,  "it's  in  already;  but  Miss  Nellie  didn't 
come  on  it." 

"May  be  she  got  out  at  the  Crossing,"  said  Wynn 
cheerfully;  "she  sometimes  does." 

"She  didn't  take  the  coach  at  Indian  Spring,"  re 
turned  Brace,  "because  I  saw  it  leave,  and  passed  it  on 
Buckskin  ten  minutes  ago,  coming  up  the  hills." 

"She's  stopped  over  at  Burnham's,"  said  Wynn  re 
flectively.  Then,  in  response  to  the  significant  silence  of 
his  guests,  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  chagrin  which  his 
forced  heartiness  could  not  disguise,  "Well,  boys,  it's  a 
disappointment  all  round;  but  we  must  take  the  lesson 
as  it  comes.  I'll  go  over  to  the  coach  office  and  see  if 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  333 

she's  sent  any  word.  Make  yourselves  at  home  until  I 
return." 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  Brace  arose 
and  took  his  hat  as  if  to  go.  With  his  hand  on  the  lock, 
he  turned  to  his  rival,  who,  half  hidden  in  the  gathering 
darkness,  still  seemed  unable  to  comprehend  his  ill-luck. 

"If  you're  waiting  for  that  bald-headed  fraud  to  come 
back  with  the  truth  about  his  daughter,"  said  Brace 
coolly,  "you'd  better  send  for  your  things  and  take  up 
your  lodgings  here." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Dunn  sternly. 

"I  mean  that  she's  not  at  the  Burnhams';  I  mean  that 
he  either  does  or  does  not  know  where  she  is,  and  that 
in  either  case  he  is  not  likely  to  give  you  information. 
But  /  can." 

"You  can?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  where  is  she?" 

"In  the  Carquinez  Woods,  in  the  arms  of  the  man  you 
were  just  defending — Low,  the  half-breed." 

The  room  had  become  so  dark  that  from  the  road 
nothing  could  be  distinguished.  Only  the  momentary 
sound  of  struggling  feet  was  heard. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Brace's  voice,  "and  don't  be  a  fool. 
You're  too  weak,  and  it  ain't  a  fair  fight.  Let  go  your 
hold.  I'm  not  lying — I  wish  to  God  I  was !" 

There  was  silence,  and  Brace  resumed,  "We've  been 
rivals,  I  know.  May  be  I  thought  my  chance  as  good  as 
yours.  If  what  I  say  ain't  truth,  we'll  stand  as  we  stood 
before ;  and  if  you're  on  the  shoot,  I'm  your  man  when 
you  like,  where  you  like,  or  on  sight  if  you  choose. 
But  I  can't  bear  to  see  another  man  played  upon  as  I've 
been  played  upon — given  dead  away  as  I've  been.  It 
ain't  on  the  square. 

"There,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "that's  right, 
now  steady.  Listen.  A  week  ago  that  girl  went  down 
just  like  this  to  Indian  Spring.  It  was  given  out,  like 
this,  that  she  went  to  the  Burnhams'.  I  don't  mind  saying, 
Dunn,  that  I  went  down  myself,  all  on  the  square,  thinking 
I  might  get  a  show  to  talk  to  her,  just  as  you  might  have 


334  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

done,  you  know,  if  you  had  my  chance.  I  didn't  come 
across  her  anywhere.  But  two  men  that  I  met  thought 
they  recognized  her  in  a  disguise  going  into  the  woods. 
Not  suspecting  anything,  I  went  after  her ;  saw  her  at 
a  distance  in  the  middle  of  the  woods  in  another  dress 
that  I  can  swear  to,  and  was  just  coming  up  to  her 
when  she  vanished — went  like  a  squirrel  up  a  tree,  or 
down  like  a  gopher  in  the  ground,  but  vanished." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Dunn's  voice.  "And  just  because 

you  were  a  d d  fool,  or  had  taken  a  little  too  much 

whisky,  you  thought — " 

"Steady.  That's  just  what  I  said  to  myself,"  inter 
rupted  Brace  coolly,  "particularly  when  I  saw  her  that 
same  afternoon  in  another  dress,  saying  'Good-by'  to  the 
Burnhams,  as  fresh  as  a  rose  and  as  cold  as  those  snow- 
peaks.  Only  one  thing — she  had  a  ring  on  her  finger 
she  never  wore  before,  and  didn't  expect  me  to  see." 

"What  if  she  did  ?  She  might  have  bought  it.  I  reckon 
she  hasn't  to  consult  you,"  broke  in  Dunn's  voice  sternly. 

"She  didn't  buy  it,"  continued  Brace  quietly.  "Low 
gave  that  Jew  trader  a  bearskin  in  exchange  for  it,  and 
presented  it  to  her.  I  found  that  out  two  days  after 
wards.  I  found  out  that  out  of  the  whole  afternoon 
she  spent  less  than  an  hour  with  the  Burnhams.  I 
found  out  that  she  bought  a  duster  like  the  disguise  the 
two  men  saw  her  in.  I  found  the  yellow  dress  she  wore 
that  day  hanging  up  in  Low's  cabin — the  place  where 
I  saw  her  go — the  rendezvous  where  she  meets  him.  Oh, 
you're  listening  are  you?  Stop!  SIT  DOWN! 

"I  discovered  it  by  accident,"  continued  the  voice  of 
Brace  when  all  was  again  quiet;  "it  was  hidden  as  only 
a  squirrel  or  an  Injin  can  hide  when  they  improve  upon 
nature.  When  I  was  satisfied  that  the  girl  had  been 
in  the  woods,  I  was  determined  to  find  out  where  she 
vanished,  and  went  there  again.  Prospecting  around,  I 
picked  up  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  biggest  trees  this 
yer  old  memorandum-book,  with  grasses  and  herbs  stuck 
in  it.  I  remembered  that  I'd  heard  old  Wynn  say  that 

Low,  like  the  d d  Digger  that  he  was,  collected  these 

herbs;  only  he  pretended  it  was  for  science.  I  reckoned 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  385 

the  book  was  his  and  that  he  mightn't  be  far  away.  I 
lay  low  and  waited.  Bimeby  I  saw  a  lizard  running 
down  the  root.  When  he  got  sight  of  me  he  stopped." 

"D n  the  lizard !  What's  that  got  to  do  with 

where  she  is  now  ?" 

"Everything.  That  lizard  had  a  piece  of  sugar  in  his 
mouth.  Where  did  it  come  from?  I  made  him  drop  it, 
and  calculated  he'd  go  back  for  more.  He  did.  He 
scooted  up  that  tree  and  slipped  in  under  some  hanging 
strips  of  bark.  I  shoved  'em  aside,  and  found  an  open 
ing  to  the  hollow  where  they  do  their  housekeeping." 

"But  you  didn't  see  her  there — and  how  do  you  know 
she  is  there  now?" 

"I  determined  to  make  it  sure.  When  she  left  to-day, 
I  started  an  hour  ahead  of  her,  and  hid  myself  at  the  edge 
of  the  woods.  An  hour  after  the  coach  arrived  at  Indian 
Spring,  she  came  there  in  a  brown  duster  and  was  joined 

by  him.  I'd  have  followed  them,  but  the  d d  hound 

has  the  ears  of  a  squirrel,  and  though  I  was  five  hundred 
yards  from  him  he  was  on  his  guard." 

"Guard  be  blessed !  Wasn't  you  armed  ?  Why  didn't 
you  go  for  him?"  said  Dunn,  furiously. 

"I  reckoned  I'd  leave  that  for  you,"  said  Brace  coolly. 
"If  he'd  killed  me,  and  il  he'd  even  covered  me  with  his 
rifle,  he'd  been  sure  to  let  daylight  through  me  at 
double  the  distance.  I  shouldn't  have  been  any  better 
off,  nor  you  either.  If  I'd  killed  him,  it  would  have  been 
your  duty  as  sheriff  to  put  me  in  jail;  and  I  reckon  it 
wouldn't  have  broken  your  heart,  Jim  Dunn,  to  have 
got  rid  of  two  rivals  instead  of  one.  Hullo !  Where  are 
you  going?" 

"Going?"  said  Dunn  hoarsely.  "Going  to  the  Car- 
quinez  Woods,  by  God !  to  kill  him  before  her.  I'll  risk 
it,  if  you  daren't.  Let  me  succeed,  and  you  can  hang  me 
and  take  the  girl  yourself." 

"Sit  down,  sit  down.  Don't  be  a  fool,  Jim  Dunn ! 
You  wouldn't  keep  the  saddle  a  hundred  yards.  Did  I 
say  I  wouldn't  help  you?  No.  If  you're  willing,  we'll 
run  the  risk  together,  but  it  must  be  in  my  way.  Hear 
me.  I'll  drive  you  down  there  in  a  buggy  before  daylight, 


336  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

and  we'll  surprise  them  in  the  cabin  or  as  they  leave  the 
wood.  But  you  must  come  as  if  to  arrest  him  for  some 
offense — say,  as  an  escaped  Digger  from  the  Reservation, 
a  dangerous  tramp,  a  destroyer  of  public  property  in 
the  forests,  a  suspected  road  agent,  or  anything  to  give 
you  the  right  to  hunt  him.  The  exposure  of  him  and 
Nellie,  don't  you  see,  must  be  accidental.  If  he  resists, 
kill  him  on  the  spot,  and  nobody'll  blame  you;  if  he  goes 
peaceably  with  you,  and  you  once  get  him  in  Excelsior 
jail,  when  the  story  gets  out  that  he's  taken  the  belle  of 
Excelsior  for  his  squaw,  if  you'd  the  angels  for  your 
posse  you  couldn't  keep  the  boys  from  hanging  him  to  the 
first  tree.  What's  that?" 

He  walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  cautiously. 

"If  it  was  the  old  man  coming  back  and  listening,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause,  "it  can't  be  helped.  He'll  hear  it 
soon  enough,  if  he  don't  suspect  something  already." 

"Look  yer,  Brace,"  broke  in  Dunn  hoarsely.     "D d 

if  I  understand  you  or  you  me.  That  dog  Low  has  got 
to  answer  to  me,  not  to  the  law!  I'll  take  my  risk  of 
killing  him,  on  sight  and  on  the  square.  I  don't  reckon 
to  handicap  myself  with  a  warrant,  and  I  am  not  going 
to  draw  him  out  with  a  lie.  You  hear  me?  That's  me 
all  the  time!" 

"Then  you  calkilate  to  go  down  thar,"  said  Brace  con 
temptuously,  "yell  out  for  him  and  Nellie,  and  let  him 
line  you  on  a  rest  from  the  first  tree  as  if  you  were  a 
grizzly." 

There  was  a  pause.  "What's  that  you  were  saying 
just  now  about  a  bearskin  he  sold?"  asked  Dunn  slowly, 
as  if  reflecting. 

"He  exchanged  a  bearskin,"  replied  Brace,  "with  a 
single  hole  right  over  the  heart.  He's  a  dead  shot,  I 
tell  you." 

"D n  his  shooting,"  said  Dunn.     "I'm  not  thinking 

of  that.    How  long  ago  did  he  bring  in  that  bearskin?" 

"About  two  weeks,  I  reckon.     Why?" 

"Nothing !  Look  yer,  Brace,  you  mean  well — thar's 
my  hand.  I'll  go  down  with  you  there,  but  not  as  the 
sheriff,  I'm  going  there  as  Jim  Dunn,  and  you  can  come 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ    WOODS  337 

along  as  a  white  man,  to  see  things  fixed  on  the  square. 
Come !" 

Brace  hesitated.  "You'll  think  better  of  my  plan  be 
fore  you  get  there;  but  I've  said  I'd  stand  by  you,  and 
I  will.  Come,  then.  There's  no  time  to  lose." 

They  passed  out  into  the  darkness  together. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  said  Dunn  impatiently, 
as  Brace,  who  was  supporting  him  by  the  arm,  suddenly 
halted  at  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"Some  one  was  listening — did  you  not  see  him?  Was 
it  the  old  man?"  asked  Brace  hurriedly. 

"Blast  the  old  man !  It  was  only  one  of  them  Mexican 
packers  chock-full  of  whisky,  and  trying  to  hold  up  the 
house.  What  are  you  thinking  of?  We  shall  be  late." 

In  spite  of  his  weakness,  the  wounded  man  hurriedly 
urged  Brace  forward,  until  they  reached  the  latter's 
lodgings  .  To  his  surprise,  the  horse  and  buggy  were 
already  before  the  door. 

"Then  you  reckoned  to  go,  any  way?"  said  Dunn, 
with  a  searching  look  at  his  companion. 

"I  calkilated  somebody  would  go,"  returned  Brace, 
evasively,  patting  the  impatient  Buckskin ;  "but  come  in 
and  take  a  drink  before  we  leave." 

Dunn  started  out  of  a  momentary  abstraction,  put 
his  hand  on  his  hip,  and  mechanically  entered  the  house. 
They  had  scarcely  raised  the  glasses  to  their  lips  when 
a  sudden  rattle  of  wheels  was  heard  in  the  street.  Brace 
set  down  his  glass  and  ran  to  the  window. 

"It's  the  mare  bolted,"  he  said,  with  an  oath.  "We've 
kept  her  too  long  standing.  Follow  me,"  and  he  dashed 
down  the  staircase  into  the  street.  Dunn  followed  with 
difficulty;  when  he  reached  the  door  he  was  already  con 
fronted  by  his  breathless  companion.  "She's  gone  off  on 
a  run,  and  I'll  swear  there  was  a  man  in  the  buggy!" 
He  stopped  and  examined  the  halter-strap,  still  fastened 
to  the  fence.  "Cut !  by  God !" 

Dunn  turned  pale  with  passion.  "Who's  got  another 
horse  and  buggy?"  he  demanded. 

"The  new  blacksmith  in  Main  Street;  but  we  won't 
get  it  by  borrowing,"  said  Brace, 


338  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"How  then?"  asked   Dunn  savagely. 

"Seize  it,  as  the  sheriff  of  Yuba  and  his  deputy, 
pursuing  a  confederate  of  the  Injin  Low — THE  HORSE 
THIEF!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  brief  hour  of  darkness  that  preceded  the  dawn 
was  that  night  intensified  by  a  dense  smoke,  which,  after 
blotting  out  horizon  and  sky,  dropped  a  thick  veil  on  the 
high  road  and  the  silent  streets  of  Indian  Spring.  As 
the  buggy  containing  Sheriff  Dunn  and  Brace  dashed 
through  the  obscurity,  Brace  suddenly  turned  to  his  com 
panion. 

"Some  one  ahead !" 

The  two  men  bent  forward  over  the  dashboard.  Above 
the  steady  plunging  of  their  own  horse-hoofs  they  could 
hear  the  quicker  irregular  beat  of  other  hoofs  in  the 
darkness  before  them. 

"It's  that  horse  thief !"  said  Dunn,  in  a  savage  whisper. 
"Bear  to  the  right,  and  hand  me  the  whip." 

A  dozen  cuts  of  the  cruel  lash,  and  their  maddened 
horse,  bounding  at  each  stroke,  broke  into  a  wild  canter. 
The  frail  vehicle  swayed  from  side  to  side  at  each  spring 
of  the  elastic  shafts.  Steadying  himself  by  one  hand 
on  the  low  rail,  Dunn  drew  his  revolver  with  the  other. 
"Sing  out  to  him  to  pull  up,  or  we'll  fire.  My  voice  is 
clean  gone,"  he  added,  in  a  husky  whisper. 

They  were  so  near  that  they  could  distinguish  the  bulk 
of  a  vehicle  careering  from  side  to  side  in  the  blackness 
ahead.  Dunn  deliberately  raised  his  weapon.  "Sing 
out!"  he  repeated  impatiently.  But  Brace,  who  was  still 
keeping  in  the  shadow,  suddenly  grasped  his  companion's 
arm. 

"Hush!     It's  not  Buckskin/'   he  whispered  hurriedly. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Don't  you  see  we're  gaining  on  him?"  replied  the  other 
contemptuously.  Dunn  grasped  his  companion's  hand 
and  pressed  it  silently.  Even  in  that  supreme  moment 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS  389 

this  horseman's  tribute  to  the  fugitive  Buckskin  fore 
stalled  all  baser  considerations  of  pursuit  and  capture ! 

In  twenty  seconds  they  were  abreast  of  the  stranger, 
crowding  his  horse  and  buggy  nearly  into  the  ditch ; 
Brace  keenly  watchful,  Dunn  suppressed  and  pale.  In 
half  a  minute  they  were  leading  him  a  length;  and  when 
their  horse  again  settled  down  to  his  steady  work,  the 
stranger  was  already  lost  in  the  circling  dust  that  fol 
lowed  them.  But  the  victors  seemed  disappointed.  The 
obscurity  had  completely  hidden  all  but  the  vague  outlines 
of  the  mysterious  driver. 

"He's  not  our  game,  anyway,"  whispered  Dunn. 
"Drive  on." 

"But  if  it  was  some  friend  of  his,"  suggested  Brace 
uneasily,  "what  would  you  do?" 

"What  I  said  I'd  do/'  responded  Dunn  savagely.  "I 
don't  want  five  minutes  to  do  it  in,  either;  we'll  be  half 

an  hour  ahead  of  that  d d  fool,  whoever  he  is.  Look 

here ;  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  put  me  in  the  trail  to 
that  cabin.  Stand  back  of  me,  out  of  gun-shot,  alone,  if 
you  like,  as  my  deputy,  or  with  any  number  you  can  pick 
up  as  my  posse.  If  he  gets  by  me  as  Nellie's  lover,  you 
may  shoot  him  or  take  him  as  a  horse  thief,  if  you  like." 

"Then  you  won't  shoot  him  on  sight?" 

"Not  till  I've  had  a  word  with  him." 

"But—" 

"I've  chirped,"  said  the  sheriff  gravely.     "Drive  on." 

For  a  few  moments  only  the  plunging  hoofs  and  rat 
tling  wheels  were  heard.  A  dull,  lurid  glow  began  to 
define  the  horizon.  They  were  silent  until  an  abatement 
of  the  smoke,  the  vanishing  of  the  gloomy  horizon  line, 
and  a  certain  impenetrability  in  the  darkness  ahead 
showed  them  they  were  nearing  the  Carquinez  Woods. 
But  they  were  surprised  on  entering  them  to  find  the 
dim  aisles  alight  with  a  faint  mystic  Aurora.  The  tops  of 
the  towering  spires  above  them  had  caught  the  gleam  of 
the  distant  forest  fires,  and  reflected  it  as  from  a  gilded 
dome. 

"It  would  be  hot  work  if  the  Carquinez  Woods  should 
conclude  to  take  a  hand  in  this  yer  little  game  that's 


340  IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

going  on  over  on  the  Divide  yonder,"  said  Brace,  securing 
his  horse  and  glancing  at  the  spires  overhead.  "I  reckon 
I'd  rather  take  a  back  seat  at  Injin  Spring  when  the 
show  commences." 

Dunn  did  not  reply,  but,  buttoning  his  coat,  placed  one 
hand  on  his  companion's  shoulder,  and  sullenly  bade  him 
"lead  the  way."  Advancing  slowly  and  with  difficulty 
the  desperate  man  might  have  been  taken  for  a  peaceful 
invalid  returning  from  an  early  morning  stroll.  His 
right  hand  was  buried  thoughtfully  in  the  side  pocket  of 
his  coat.  Only  Brace  knew  that  it  rested  on  the  handle 
of  his  pistol. 

From  time  to  time  the  latter  stopped  and  consulted  the 
faint  trail  with  a  minuteness  that  showed  recent  careful 
study.  Suddenly  he  paused.  "I  made  a  blaze  hereabouts 
to  show  where  to  leave  the  trail.  There  it  is,"  he  added, 
pointing  to  a  slight  notch  cut  in  the  trunk  of  an  adjoining 
tree. 

"But  we've  just  passed  one,"  said  Dunn,  "if  that's  what 
you  are  looking  after,  a  hundred  yards  back." 

Brace  uttered  an  oath,  and  ran  back  in  the  direction 
signified  by  his  companion.  Presently  he  returned  with 
a  smile  of  triumph. 

"They've  suspected  something.  It's  a  clever  trick,  but 
it  won't  hold  water.  That  blaze  which  was  done  to 
muddle  you  was  cut  with  an  axe ;  this  which  I  made  was 
done  with  a  bowie-knife.  It's  the  real  one.  We're  not 
far  off  now.  Come  on." 

They  proceeded  cautiously,  at  right  angles  with  the 
"blazed"  tree,  for  ten  minutes  more.  The  heat  was  op 
pressive;  drops  of  perspiration  rolled  from  the  fore 
head  of  the  sheriff,  and  at  times,  when  he  attempted 
to  steady  his  uncertain  limbs,  his  hands  shrank  from 
the  heated,  blistering  bark  he  touched  with  ungloved 
palms. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Brace,  pausing  at  last.  "Do  you 
see  that  biggest  tree,  with  the  root  stretching  out  half 
way  across  to  the  opposite  one?" 

"No,  it's  further  to  the  right  and  abreast  of  the  dead 
brush,"  interrupted  Dunn  quickly,  with  a  sudden  revela- 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  341 

tion  that  this  was  the  spot  where  he  had  found  the  dead 
bear  in  the  night  Teresa  escaped. 

"That's  so,"  responded  Brace,  in  astonishment. 

"And  the  opening  is  on  the  other  side,  opposite  the 
dead  brush,"  said  Dunn. 

"Then  you  know  it  ?"  said  Brace  suspiciously. 

"I  reckon  !"  responded  Dunn,  grimly.  "That's  enough ! 
Fall  back !" 

To  the  surprise  of  his  companion,  he  lifted  his  head 
erect,  and  with  a  strong,  firm  step  walked  directly  to  the 
tree.  Reaching  it,  he  planted  himself  squarely  before  the 
opening. 

"Halloo !"  he  said. 

There  was  no  reply.  A  squirrel  scampered  away  close 
to  his  feet.  Brace,  far  in  the  distance,  after  an  in 
effectual  attempt  to  distinguish  his  companion  through 
the  intervening  trunks,  took  off  his  coat,  leaned  against  a 
tree,  and  lit  a  cigar. 

"Come  out  of  that  cabin !"  continued  Dunn,  in  a  clear, 
resonant  voice.  "Come  out  before  I  drag  you  out !" 

"All  right,  'Captain  Scott.'  Don't  shoot,  and  I'll  come 
down,"  said  a  voice  as  clear  and  as  high  as  his  own.  The 
hanging  strips  of  bark  were  dashed  aside,  and  a  woman 
leaped  lightly  to  the  ground. 

Dunn  staggered  back.     "Teresa !  by  the  Eternal !" 

It  was  Teresa !  the  old  Teresa !  Teresa,  a  hundred  times 
more  vicious,  reckless,  hysterical,  extravagant,  and  out 
rageous  than  before.  Teresa,  staring  with  tooth  and  eye, 
sunburnt  and  embrowned,  her  hair  hanging  down  her 
shoulders,  and  her  shawl  drawn  tightly  around  her 
neck. 

"Teresa  it  is !  the  same  old  gal !  Here  we  are  again ! 
Return  of  the  favorite  in  her  original  character !  For 
two  weeks  only !  Houp  la  !  Tshk !"  and,  catching  her 
yellow  skirt  with  her  fingers,  she  pirouetted  before  the 
astounded  man,  and  ended  in  a  pose.  Recovering  him 
self  with  an  effort,  Dunn  dashed  forward  and  seized  her 
by  the  wrist. 

"Answer  me,  woman!     Is  that  Low's  cabin?" 

"It  is." 


342  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"Who  occupies  it  besides?" 

"I  do." 

"And  who  else?" 

"Well,"  drawled  Teresa  slowly,  with  an  extravagant 
affectation  of  modesty,  "nobody  else  but  us,  I  reckon. 
Two's  company,  you  know,  and  three's  none." 

"Stop !  Will  you  swear  that  there  isn't  a  young  girl, 
his — his  sweetheart — concealed  there  with  you?" 

The  fire  in  Teresa's  eye  was  genuine  as  she  answered 
steadily,  "Well,  it  ain't  my  style  to  put  up  with  that  sort 
of  thing;  at  least,  it  wasn't  over  at  Yolo,  and  you  know 
it,  Jim  Dunn,  or  I  wouldn't  be  here." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Dunn  hurriedly.  "But  I'm  a  d d 

fool,  or  worse,  the  fool  of  a  fool.  Tell  me,  Teresa,  is  this 
man  Low  your  lover?" 

Teresa  lowered  her  eyes  as  if  in  maidenly  confusion. 
"Well,  if  I'd  known  that  you  had  any  feeling  of  your  own 
about  it — if  you'd  spoken  sooner — " 

"Answer  me,  you  devil !" 

"He  is." 

"And  he  has  been  with  you  here — yesterday — to-night?" 

"He  has." 

"Enough."  He  laughed  a  weak,  foolish  laugh,  and, 
turning  pale,  suddenly  lapsed  against  a  tree.  He  would 
have  fallen,  but  with  a  quick  instinct  Teresa  sprang  to 
his  side,  and  supported  him  gently  to  a  root.  The  action 
over  they  both  looked  astounded. 

"I  reckon  that  wasn't  much  like  either  you  or  me," 
said  Dunn  slowly,  "was  it?  But  if  you'd  let  me  drop 
then  you'd  have  stretched  out  the  biggest  fool  in  the 
Sierras."  He  paused,  and  looked  at  her  curiously. 
"What's  come  over  you;  blessed  if  I  seem  to  know  you 
now." 

She  was  very  pale  again,  and  quiet;  that  was  all. 

"Teresa !  d n  it,  look  here  !  When  I  was  laid  up 

yonder  in  Excelsior  I  said  I  wanted  to  get  well  for  only 
two  things.  One  was  to  hunt  you  down,  the  other  to 
marry  Nellie  Wynn.  When  I  came  here  I  thought  that 
last  thing  could  never  be.  I  came  here  expecting  to  find 
her  here  with  Low,  and  kill  him — perhaps  kill  her  too. 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS  343 

I  never  once  thought  of  you ;  not  once.  You  might  have 
risen  up  before  me — between  me  and  him — and  I'd  have 
passed  you  by.  And  now  that  I  find  it's  all  a  mistake, 
and  it  was  you,  not  her,  I  was  looking  for,  why — " 

"Why,"  she  interrupted  bitterly,  "you'll  just  take  me, 
of  course,  to  save  your  time  and  earn  your  salary.  I'm 
ready." 

"But  I'm  not,  just  yet,"  he  said  faintly.  "Help  me 
up." 

She  mechanically  assisted  him  to  his  feet. 

"Now  stand  where  you  are,"  he  added,  "and  don't  move 
beyond  this  tree  till  I  return." 

He  straightened  himself  with  an  effort,  clenched  his 
fists  until  the  nails  were  nearly  buried  in  his  palms,  and 
strode  with  a  firm,  steady  step  in  the  direction  he  had 
come.  In  a  few  moments  he  returned  and  stood  before 
her. 

"I've  sent  away  my  deputy — the  man  who  brought  me 
here,  the  fool  who  thought  you  were  Nellie.  He  knows 
now  he  made  a  mistake.  But  who  it  was  he  mistook  for 
Nellie  he  does  not  know,  nor  shall  ever  know,  nor  shall 
any  living  being  know,  other  than  myself.  And  when  I 
leave  the  wood  to-day  I  shall  know  it  no  longer.  You  are 
safe  here  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  but  I  cannot  screen 
you  from  others  prying.  Let  Low  take  you  away  from 
here  as  soon  as  he  can." 

"Let  him  take  me  away?    Ah,  yes.    For  what?" 

"To  save  you,"  said  Dunn.  "Look  here,  Teresa! 
Without  knowing  it,  you  lifted  me  out  of  hell  just  now, 
and  because  of  the  wrong  I  might  have  done  her — for  her 
sake,  I  spare  you  and  shirk  my  duty." 

"For  her  sake !"  gasped  the  woman — "for  her  sake ! 
Oh,  yes  !  Go  on." 

"Well,"  said  Dunn  gloomily,  "I  reckon  perhaps  you'd 
as  lieve  left  me  in  hell,  for  all  the  love  you  bear  me.  And 
may  be  you've  grudge  enough  agin  me  still  to  wish  I'd 
found  her  and  him  together." 

"You  think  so?"  she  said,  turning  her  head  away. 

"There,  d n  it !  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  cry. 

May  be  you  wouldn't,  then.  Only  tell  that  fellow  to 


344  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

take  you  out  of  this,  and  not  run  away  the  next  time 
he  sees  a  man  coming." 

"He  didn't  run,"  said  Teresa,  with  flashing  eyes.  "I — 
I — I  sent  him  away,"  she  stammered.  Then,  suddenly 
turning  with  fury  upon  him,  she  broke  out,  "Run !  Run 
from  you!  Ha,  ha!  You  said  just  now  I'd  a  grudge 
against  you.  Well,  listen,  Jim  Dunn.  I'd  only  to  bring 
you  in  range  of  that  young  man's  rifle,  and  you'd  have 
dropped  in  your  tracks  like — " 

"Like  that  bar,  the  other  night,"  said  Dunn,  with  a 
short  laugh.  "So  that  was  your  little  game?"  He 
checked  his  laugh  suddenly — a  cloud  passed  over  his  face. 
"Look  here,  Teresa,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption  of  care 
lessness  that  was  as  transparent  as  it  was  utterly  incom 
patible  with  his  frank,  open  selfishness.  "What  became  of 
that  bar?  The  skin — eh?  That  was  worth  something ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Teresa  quietly.  "Low  exchanged  it  and 
got  a  ring  for  me  from  that  trader  Isaacs.  It  was  worth 
more,  you  bet.  And  the  ring  didn't  fit  either — " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Dunn,  with  an  almost  childish 
eagerness. 

"And  I  made  him  take  it  back,  and  get  the  value  in 
money.  I  hear  that  Isaacs  sold  it  again  and  made 
another  profit;  but  that's  like  those  traders."  The  disin 
genuous  candor  of  Teresa's  manner  was  in  exquisite  con 
trast  to  Dunn.  He  rose  and  grasped  her  hand  so  heartily 
she  was  forced  to  turn  her  eyes  away. 

"Good-by!"  he  said. 

"You  look  tired,"  she  murmured,  with  a  sudden  gen 
tleness  that  surprised  him;  "let  me  go  with  you  a  part 
of  the  way." 

"It  isn't  safe  for  you  just  now,"  he  said,  thinking  of 
the  possible  consequences  of  the  alarm  Brace  had  raised. 

"Not  the  way  you  came,"  she  replied;  "but  one  known 
only  to  myself." 

He  hesitated  only  a  moment.  "All  right,  then,"  he 
said  finally,  "let  us  go  at  once.  It's  suffocating  here,  and 
I  seem  to  feel  this  dead  bark  crinkle  under  my  feet." 

She  cast  a  rapid  glance  around  her,  and  then  seemed 
to  sound  with  her  eyes  the  far-off  depths  of  the  aisles, 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS  345 

beginning  to  grow  pale  with  the  advancing  day,  but  still 
holding  a  strange  quiver  of  heat  in  the  air.  When  she 
had  finished  her  half-abstracted  scrutiny  of  the  distance, 
she  cast  one  backward  glance  at  her  own  cabin  and 
stopped. 

"Will  you  wait  a  moment  for  me?"  she  asked  gently. 

"Yes — but — no  tricks,  Teresa  !    It  isn't  worth  the  time." 

She  looked  him  squarely  in  the  eyes  without  a  word. 

"Enough,"  he  said;  "go!" 

She  was  absent  for  some  moments.  He  was  beginning 
to  become  uneasy,  when  she  made  her  appearance  again, 
clad  in  her  old  faded  black  dress.  Her  face  was  very 
pale,  and  her  eyes  were  swollen,  but  she  placed  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  and  bidding  him  not  to  fear  to  lean 
upon  her,  for  she  was  quite  strong,  led  the  way. 

"You  look  more  like  yourself  now,  and  yet — blast  it 
all ! — you  don't  either,"  said  Dunn,  looking  down  upon 
her.  "You've  changed  in  some  way.  What  is  it?  Is  it 
on  account  of  that  Injin?  Couldn't  you  have  found  a 
white  man  in  his  place?" 

"I  reckon  he's  neither  worse  nor  better  for  that,"  she 
replied  bitterly;  "and  perhaps  he  wasn't  as  particular  in 
his  taste  as  a  white  man  might  have  been.  But,"  she 
added,  with  a  sudden  spasm  of  her  old  rage,  "it's  a  lie; 
he's  not  an  Indian,  no  more  than  I  am.  Not  unless  being 
born  of  a  mother  who  scarcely  knew  him,  of  a  father  who 
never  even  saw  him,  and  being  brought  up  among  white 
men  and  wild  beasts — less  cruel  than  they  were — could 
make  him  one !" 

Dunn  looked  at  her  in  surprise  not  unmixed  with  ad 
miration.  "If  Nellie,"  he  thought,  "could  but  love  me 
like  that !"  But  he  only  said : 

"For  all  that,  he's  an  Injin.  Why,  look  at  his  name. 
It  ain't  Low.  It's  L'Eau  Dormante,  Sleeping  Water,  an 
Injin  name." 

"And  what  does  that  prove?"  returned  Teresa.  "Only 
that  Indians  clap  a  nick-name  on  any  stranger,  white  or 
red,  who  may  camp  with  them.  Why,  even  his  own 
father,  a  white  man,  the  wretch  who  begot  him  and 
abandoned  him, — he  had  an  Indian  name — Loup  Noir." 


346  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"What  name  did  you  say?" 

"Le  Loup  Noir,  the  Black  Wolf.  I  suppose  you'd  call 
him  an  Indian,  too  ?  Eh !  What's  the  matter  ?  We're 
walking  too  fast.  Stop  a  moment  and  rest.  There — 
there,  lean  on  me  !" 

She  was  none  too  soon;  for,  after  holding  him  upright 
a  moment,  his  limbs  failed,  and  stooping  gently  she  was 
obliged  to  support  him  half  reclining  against  a  tree. 

"It's  the  heat !"  he  said.  "Give  me  some  whisky  from 
my  flask.  Never  mind  the  water,"  he  added  faintly,  with 
a  forced  laugh,  after  he  had  taken  a  draught  at  the  strong 
spirit.  "Tell  me  more  about  the  other  water — the 
Sleeping  Water — you  know.  How  do  you  know  all  this 
about  him  and  his — father?" 

"Partly  from  him  and  partly  from  Curson,  who  wrote 
to  me  about  him,"  she  answered  with  some  hesitation. 

But  Dunn  did  not  seem  to  notice  this  incongruity  of 
correspondence  with  a  former  lover.  "And  he  told 
you?" 

"Yes ;  and  I  saw  the  name  on  an  old  memorandum  book 
he  has,  which  he  says  belonged  to  his  father.  It's  full  of 
old  accounts  of  some  trading  post  on  the  frontier.  It's 
been  missing  for  a  day  or  two,  but  it  will  turn  up. 
But  I  can  swear  I  saw  it." 

Dunn  attempted  to  rise  to  his  feet.  "Put  your  hand  in 
my  pocket,"  he  said  in  a  hurried  whisper.  "No,  there ! — 
bring  out  a  book.  There,  I  haven't  looked  at  it  yet.  Is 
that  it?"  he  added,  handing  her  the  book  Brace  had  given 
him  a  few  hours  before. 

"Yes,"  said  Teresa,  in  surprise.  "Where  did  you 
find  it  ?" 

"Never  mind !  Now  let  me  see  it,  quick.  Open  it,  for 
my  sight  is  failing.  There — thank  you — that's  all  1" 

"Take  more  whisky,"  said  Teresa,  with  a  strange 
anxiety  creeping  over  her.  "You  are  faint  again." 

"Wait!  Listen,  Teresa — lower — put  your  ear  lower. 
Listen !  I  came  near  killing  that  chap  Low  to-day. 
Wouldn't  it  have  been  ridiculous?" 

He  tried  to  smile,  but  his  head  fell  back.  He  had 
fainted. 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  347 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOR  the  first  time  in  her  life  Teresa  lost  her  presence 
of  mind  in  an  emergency.  She  could  only  sit  staring  at 
the  helpless  man,  scarcely  conscious  of  his  condition,  her 
mind  filled  with  a  sudden  prophetic  intuition  of  the 
significance  of  his  last  words.  In  the  light  of  that  new 
revelation  she  looked  into  his  pale,  haggard  face  for  some 
resemblance  to  Low,  but  in  vain.  Yet  her  swift  feminine 
instinct  met  the  objection.  "It's  the  mother's  blood  that 
would  show,"  she  murmured,  "not  this  man's." 

Recovering  herself,  she  began  to  chafe  his  hands 
and  temples,  and  moistened  his  lips  with  the  spirit. 
When  his  respiration  returned  with  a  faint  color  to  his 
cheeks,  she  pressed  his  hands  eagerly  and  leaned  over 
him. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked. 

"Of  what?"  he  whispered  faintly. 

"That  Low  is  really  your  son?" 

"Who  said  so?"  he  asked,  opening  his  round  eyes 
upon  her. 

"You  did  yourself,  a  moment  ago,"  she  said  quickly. 
"Don't  you  remember?" 

"Did  I  ?" 

"You  did.    Is  it  not  so?" 

He  smiled  faintly.     "I  reckon." 

She  held  her  breath  in  expectation.  But  only  the 
ludicrousness  of-  the  discovery  seemed  paramount  to  his 
weakened  faculties.  "Isn't  it  just  about  the  ridiculousest 
thing  all  round?"  he  said,  with  a  feeble  chuckle.  "First 
you  nearly  kill  me  before  you  know  I  am  Low's  father; 
then  I'm  just  spoilin'  to  kill  him  before  I  know  he's  my 
son;  then  that  god-forsaken  fool  Jack  Brace  mistakes  you 
for  Nellie  and  Nellie  for  you.  Ain't  it  just  the  biggest 
thing  for  the  boys  to  get  hold  of?  But  we  must  keep  it 
dark  until  after  I  marry  Nellie,  don't  you  see?  Then 
we'll  have  a  good  time  all  round,  and  I'll  stand  the  drinks. 
Think  of  it,  Teresha !  You  don'  no  me,  I  do'  no  you, 
nobody  knowsh  anybody  elsh.  I  try  kill  Lo'.  Lo'  wants 


348  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

kill  Nellie.  No  thath  no  ri — '  "  but  the  potent  liquor,  over 
taking  his  exhausted  senses,  thickened,  impeded,  and  at 
last  stopped  his  speech.  His  head  slipped  to  her  shoulder, 
and  he  became  once  more  unconscious. 

Teresa  breathed  again.  In  that  brief  moment  she  had 
abandoned  herself  to  a  wild  inspiration  of  hope  which 
she  could  scarcely  define.  Not  that  it  was  entirely  a  wild 
inspiration ;  she  tried  to  reason  calmly.  What  if  she 
revealed  the  truth  to  him  ?  What  if  she  told  the  wretched 
man  before  her  that  she  had  deceived  him;  that  she  had 
overheard  his  conversation  with  Brace;  that  she  had 
stolen  Brace's  horse  to  Bring  Low  warning;  that,  failing 
to  find  Low  in  his  accustomed  haunts,  or  at  the  camp- 
fire,  she  had  left  a  note  for  him  pinned  to  the  herbarium, 
imploring  him  to  fly  with  his  companion  from  the  danger 
that  was  coming;  and  that,  remaining  on  watch,  she  had 
seen  them  both — Brace  and  Dunn — approaching,  and  had 
prepared  to  meet  them  at  the  cabin?  Would  this  mis 
erable  and  maddened  man  understand  her  self-abnegation  ? 
Would  he  forgive  Low  and  Nellie? — she  did  not  ask  for 
herself.  Or  would  the  revelation  turn  his  brain,  if  it  did 
not  kill  him  outright?  She  looked  at  the  sunken  orbits 
of  his  eyes  and  hectic  on  his  cheek,  and  shuddered. 

Why  was  this  added  to  the  agony  she  already  suffered? 
She  had  been  willing  to  stand  between  them  with  her 
life,  her  liberty,  and  even — the  hot  blood  dyed  her  cheek 
at  the  thought — with  the  added  shame  of  being  thought 
the  cast-off  mistress  of  that  man's  son.  Yet  all  this  she 
had  taken  upon  herself  in  expiation  of  something — she 
knew  not  clearly  what;  no,  for  nothing — only  for  him.- 
And  yet  this  very  situation  offered  her  that  gleam  of  hope 
which  had  thrilled  her;  a  hope  so  wild  in  its  improba 
bility,  so  degrading  in  its  possibility,  that  at  first  she 
knew  not  whether  despair  was  not  preferable  to  its 
shame.  And  yet  was  it  unreasonable?  She  was  no 
longer  passionate;  she  would  be  calm  and  think  it  out 
fairly. 

She  would  go  to  Low  at  once.  She  would  find  him 
somewhere — and  even  if  with  that  girl,  what  mattered? — 
and  she  would  tell  him  all.  When  he  knew  that  the  life 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  349 

and  death  of  his  father  lay  in  the  scale,  would  he  let  his 
brief,  foolish  passion  for  Nellie  stand  in  the  way?  Even 
if  he  were  not  influenced  by  filial  affection  or  mere  com 
passion,  would  his  pride  let  him  stoop  to  a  rivalry  with  the 
man  who  had  deserted  his  youth?  Could  he  take  Dunn's 
promised  bride,  who  must  have  coquetted  with  him  to 
have  brought  him  to  this  miserable  plight  ?  Was  this  like 
the  calm,  proud  young  god  she  knew  ?  Yet  she  had  an 
uneasy  instinct  that  calm,  proud  young  gods  and  god 
desses  did  things  like  this,  and  felt  the  weakness  of  her 
reasoning  flush  her  own  conscious  cheek. 

"Teresa !" 

She  started.  Dunn  was  awake,  and  was  gazing  at  her 
curiously. 

"I  was  reckoning  it  was  the  only  square  thing  for  Low 
to  stop  this  promiscuous  picnicking  here  and  marry  you 
out  and  out." 

"Marry  me !"  said  Teresa  in  a  voice  that,  with  all  her 
efforts,  she  could  not  make  cynical. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "after  I've  married  Nellie;  tote  you 
down  to  San  Angeles,  and  there  take  my  name  like  a  man, 
and  give  it  to  you.  Nobody'll  ask  after  Teresa,  sure — you 
bet  your  life.  And  if  they  do,  and  he  can't  stop  their 
jaw,  just  you  call  on  the  old  man.  It's  mighty  queer, 
ain't  it,  Teresa,  to  think  of  your  being  my  daughter- 
in-law?" 

It  seemed  here  as  if  he  was  about  to  lapse  again  into 
unconsciousness  over  the  purely  ludicrous  aspect  of  the 
subject,  but  he  haply  recovered  his  seriousness.  "He'll 
have  as  much  money  from  me  as  he  wants  to  go  into 
business  with.  What's  his  line  of  business,  Teresa?" 
asked  this  prospective  father-in-law,  in  a  large,  liberal 
way. 

"He  is  a  botanist !"  said  Teresa,  with  a  sudden  childish 
animation  that  seemed  to  keep  up  the  grim  humor  of  the 
paternal  suggestion ;  "and  oh,  he  is  too  poor  to  buy  books ! 
I  sent  for  one  or  two  for  him  myself,  the  other  day — " 
she  hesitated — "it  was  all  the  money  I  had,  but  it  wasn't 
enough  for  him  to  go  on  with  his  studies." 

Dunn  looked  at  her  sparkling  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks, 


S50  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

and   became   thoughtful.       "Curson   must   have   been   a 
d d  fool,"  he  said  finally. 

Teresa  remained  silent.  She  was  beginning  to  be  im 
patient  and  uneasy,  fearing  some  mischance  that  might 
delay  her  dreaded,  yet  longed-for  meeting  with  Low. 
Yet  she  could  not  leave  this  sick  and  exhausted  man, 
his  father,  now  bound  to  her  by  more  than  mere 
humanity. 

"Couldn't  you  manage,"  she  said  gently,  "to  lean  on  me 
a  few  steps  further,  until  I  could  bring  you  to  a  cooler 
spot  and  nearer  assistance? 

He  nodded.  She  lifted  him  almost  like  a  child  to  his 
feet.  A  spasm  of  pain  passed  over  his  face.  "How  far 
is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Not  more  than  ten  minutes,"  she  replied. 

"I  can  make  a  spurt  for  that  time,"  he  said  coolly,  and 
began  to  walk  slowly  but  steadily  on.  Only  his  face, 
which  was  white  and  set,  and  the  convulsive  grip  of  his 
hand  on  her  arm  betrayed  the  effort.  At  the  end  of  ten 
minutes  she  stopped.  They  stood  before  the  splintered, 
lightning-scarred  shaft  in  the  opening  of  the  woods,  where 
Low  had  built  her  first  camp-fire.  She  carefully  picked 
up  the  herbarium,  but  her  quick  eye  had  already  detected 
in  the  distance,  before  she  had  allowed  Dunn  to  enter  the 
opening  with  her,  that  her  note  was  gone.  Low  had  been 
there  before  them;  he  had  been  warned,  as  his  absence 
from  the  cabin  showed ;  he  would  not  return  there.  They 
were  free  from  interruption — but  where  had  he  gone? 

The  sick  man  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  as  she 
seated  him  in  the  clover-grown  hollow  where  she  had 
slept  the  second  night  of  her  stay.  "It's  cooler  than 
those  cursed  woods,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  it's  because 
it's  a  little  like  a  grave.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
now?"  he  added,  as  she  brought  a  cup  of  water  and 
placed  it  at  his  side. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you  here  for  a  little  while,"  she 
said  cheerfully,  but  with  a  pale  face  and  nervous  hands. 
"I'm  going  to  leave  you  while  I  seek  Low." 

The  sick  man  raised  his  head.  "I'm  good  for  a  spurt, 
Teresa,  like  that  I've  just  got  through,  but  I  don't 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ    WOODS  351 

think  I'm  up  to  a  family  party.  Couldn't  you  issue  cards 
later  on?" 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to  get 
Low  to  send  some  one  of  your  friends  to  you  here.  I 
don't  think  he'll  begrudge  leaving  her  a  moment  for 
that,"  she  added  to  herself  bitterly. 

"What's  that  you're  saying?"  he  queried,  with  the 
nervous  quickness  of  an  invalid. 

"Nothing — but  that  I'm  going  now."  She  turned  her 
face  aside  to  hide  her  moistened  eyes.  "Wish  me  good 
luck,  won't  you?"  she  asked,  half  sadly,  half  pettishly. 

"Come  here !" 

She  came  and  bent  over  him.  He  suddenly  raised  his 
hands,  and,  drawing  her  face  down  to  his  own,  kissed 
her  forehead. 

"Give  that  to  him,"  he  whispered,  "from  me" 

She  turned  and  fled,  happily  for  her  sentiment,  not 
hearing  the  feeble  laugh  that  followed,  as  Dunn,  in  sheer 
imbecility,  again  referred  to  the  extravagant  ludicrous- 
ness  of  the  situation.  "It  is  about  the  biggest  thing 
in  the  way  of  a  sell  all  round,"  he  repeated,  lying  on 
his  back,  confidentially  to  the  speck  of  smoke-obscured 
sky  above  him.  He  pictured  himself  repeating  it,  not  to 
Nellie — her  severe  propriety  might  at  last  overlook  the 
fact,  but  would  not  tolerate  the  joke — but  to  her  father ! 
It  would  be  one  of  those  characteristic  Calif ornian  jokes 
Father  Wynn  would  admire. 

To  his  exhaustion  fever  presently  succeeded,  and  he 
began  to  grow  restless.  The  heat  too  seemed  to  invade 
his  retreat,  and  from  time  to  time  the  little  patch  of 
blue  sky  was  totally  obscured  by  clouds  of  smoke.  He 
amused  himself  with  watching  a  lizard  who  was  investi 
gating  a  folded  piece  of  paper,  whose  elasticity  gave  the 
little  creature  lively  apprehensions  of  its  vitality.  At 
last  he  could  stand  the  stillness  of  his  reatreat  and  his 
supine  position  no  longer,  and  rolled  himself  out  of  the 
bed  of  leaves  that  Teresa  had  so  carefully  prepared  for 
him.  He  rose  to  his  feet  stiff  and  sore,  and,  supporting 
himself  by  the  nearest  tree,  moved  a  few  steps  from 
the  dead  ashes  of  the  camp-fire.  The  movement  fright- 


352  IN   THE   CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

ened  the  lizard,  who  abandoned  the  paper  and  fled. 
With  a  satirical  recollection  of  Brace  and  his  "ridicu 
lous"  discovery  through  the  medium  of  this  animal,  he 
stooped  and  picked  up  the  paper.  "Like  as  not,"  he  said 
to  himself,  with  grim  irony,  "these  yer  lizards  are  in 
the  discovery  business.  P'r'aps  this  may  lead  to  another 
mystery,"  and  he  began  to  unfold  the  paper  with  a  smile. 
But  the  smile  ceased  as  his  eye  suddenly  caught  his  own 
name. 

A  dozen  lines  were  written  in  pencil  on  what  seemed 
to  be  a  blank  leaf  originally  torn  from  some  book.  He 
trembled  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  down  to  read 
these  words: — 

"When  you  get  this  keep  away  from  the  woods.  Dunn 
and  another  man  are  in  deadly  pursuit  of  you  and  your 
companion.  I  overheard  their  plan  to  surprise  you  in 
our  cabin.  Don't  go  there,  and  I  will  delay  them  and 
put  them  off  the  scent.  Don't  mind  me.  God  bless  you, 
and  if  you  never  see  me  again  think  sometimes  of 

"TERESA." 

His  trembling  ceased;  he  did  not  start,  but  rose  in  an 
abstracted  way,  and  made  a  few  deliberate  steps  in  the 
direction  Teresa  had  gone.  Even  then  he  was  so  con 
fused  that  he  was  obliged  to  refer  to  the  paper  again, 
but  with  so  little  effect  that  he  could  only  repeat  the  last 
words,  "think  sometimes  of  Teresa."  He  was  conscious 
that  this  was  not  all;  he  had  a  full  conviction  of  being 
deceived,  and  knew  that  he  held  the  proof  in  his  hand, 
but  he  could  not  formulate  it  beyond  that  sentence. 
"Teresa" — yes,  he  would  think  of  her.  She  would  ex 
plain  it.  And  here  she  was  returning. 

In  that  brief  interval  her  face  and  manner  had  again 
changed.  Her  face  was  pale  and  quite  breathless.  She 
cast  a  swift  glance  at  Dunn  and  the  paper  he  mechanic 
ally  held  out,  walked  up  to  him,  and  tore  it  from  his  hand. 

"Well,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

He  attempted  to  speak,  but  his  voice  failed  him.  Even 
then  he  was  conscious  that  if  he  had  spoken  he  would 


IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS  853 

have  only  repeated,  "think  sometimes  of  Teresa."  He 
looked  longingly  but  helplessly  at  the  spot  where  she  had 
thrown  the  paper,  as  if  it  had  contained  his  unuttered 
words. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on  to  herself,  as  if  he  was  a  mute, 
indifferent  spectator — "yes,  they're  gone.  That  ends  it 
all.  The  game's  played  out.  Well !"  suddenly  turning 
upon  him,  "now  you  know  it  all.  Your  Nellie  was  here 
with  him,  and  is  with  him  now.  Do  you  hear?  Make 
the  most  of  it ;  you've  lost  them — but  here  I  am." 

"Yes,"  he  said  eagerly — "yes,  Teresa." 

She  stopped,  stared  at  him;  then  taking  him  by  the 
hand  led  him  like  a  child  back  to  his  couch.  "Well,"  she 
said,  in  half-savage  explanation,  "I  told  you  the  truth 
when  I  said  the  girl  wasn't  at  the  cabin  last  night,  and 
that  I  didn't  know  her.  What  are  you  glowerin'  at? 
No !  I  haven't  lied  to  you,  I  swear  to  God,  except  in  one 
thing.  Did  you  know  what  that  was?  To  save  him  I 
took  upon  me  a  shame  I  don't  deserve.  I  let  you  think 
I  was  his  mistress.  You  think  so  now,  don't  you?  Well, 
before  God  to-day — and  He  may  take  me  when  He  likes 
— I'm  no  more  to  him  than  a  sister !  I  reckon  your  Nellie 
can't  say  as  much." 

She  turned  away,  and  with  the  quick,  impatient  stride 
of  some  caged  animal  made  the  narrow  circuit  of  the 
opening,  stopping  a  moment  mechanically  before  the  sick 
man,  and  again,  without  looking  at  him,  continuing  her 
monotonous  round.  The  heat  had  become  excessive,  but 
she  held  her  shawl  with  both  hands  drawn  tightly  over 
her  shoulders.  Suddenly  a  wood-duck  darted  out  of  the 
covert  blindly  into  the  opening,  struck  against  the  blasted 
trunk,  fell  half  stunned  near  her  feet,  and  then,  recov 
ering,  fluttered  away.  She  had  scarcely  completed 
another  circuit  before  the  irruption  was  followed  by  a 
whirring  bevy  of  quail,  a  flight  of  jays,  and  a  sudden 
tumult  of  wings  swept  through  the  wood  like  a  tornado. 
She  turned  inquiringly  to  Dunn,  who  had  risen  to  his 
feet,  but  the  next  moment  she  caught  convulsively  at 
his  wrist;  a  wolf  had  just  dashed  through  the  under 
brush  not  a  dozen  yards  away,  and  on  either  side  of  them 

12  V.   a 


354  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

they  could  hear  the  scamper  and  rustle  of  hurrying  feet 
like  the  outburst  of  a  summer  shower.  A  cold  wind 
arose  from  the  opposite  direction,  as  if  to  contest  this 
wild  exodus,  but  it  was  followed  by  a  blast  of  sickening 
heat.  Teresa  sank  at  Dunn's  feet  in  an  agony  of  terror. 

"Don't  let  them  touch  me!"  she  gasped;  "keep  them 
off !  Tell  me,  for  God's  sake,  what  has  happened !" 

He  laid  his  hand  firmly  on  her  arm,  and  lifted  her  in 
his  turn  to  her  feet  like  a  child.  In  that  supreme  moment 
of  physical  danger,  his  strength,  reason,  and  manhood 
returned  in  their  plenitude  of  power.  He  pointed  coolly 
to  the  trail  she  had  quitted,  and  said, 

"The  Carquinez  Woods  are  on  fire !" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  nest  of  the  tuneful  Burnhams,  although  in  the 
suburbs  of  Indian  Spring,  was  not  in  ordinary  weather 
and  seasons  hidden  from  the  longing  eyes  of  the  youth 
of  that  settlement.  That  night,  however,  it  was  veiled  in 
the  smoke  that  encompassed  the  great  highway  leading 
to  Excelsior.  It  is  presumed  that  the  Burnham  brood 
had  long  since  folded  their  wings,  for  there  was  no  sign 
of  life  nor  movement  in  the  house  as  a  rapidly-driven 
horse  and  buggy  pulled  up  before  it.  Fortunately,  the 
paternal  Burnham  was  an  early  bird,  in  the  habit  of 
picking  up  the  first  stirring  mining  worm,  and  a  resound 
ing  knock  brought  him  half  dressed  to  the  street  door. 
He  was  startled  at  seeing  Father  Wynn  before  him,  a 
trifle  flushed  and  abstracted. 

"Ah  ha !  up  betimes,  I  see,  and  ready.  No  sluggards 
here — ha,  ha !"  he  said  heartily,  slamming  the  door  be 
hind  him,  and  by  a  series  of  pokes  in  the  ribs  genially 
backing  his  host  into  his  own  sitting-room.  "I'm  up, 
too,  and  am  here  to  see  Nellie.  She's  here,  eh — of 
course?"  he  added,  darting  a  quick  look  at  Burnham. 

But  Mr.  Burnham  was  one  of  those  large,  liberal 
Western  husbands  who  classified  his  household  under 
the  general  title  of  "woman  folk,"  for  the  integers  of 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  355 

which  he  was  not  responsible.  He  hesitated,  and  then 
propounded  over  the  balusters  to  the  upper  story  the 
direct  query — 

"You  don't  happen  to  have  Nellie  Wynn  up  there, 
do  ye?" 

There  was  an  interval  of  inquiry  proceeding  from  half 
a  dozen  reluctant  throats,  more  or  less  cottony  and 
muffled,  in  those  various  degrees  of  grievance  and  mental 
distress  which  indicate  too  early  roused  young  woman 
hood.  The  eventual  reply  seemed  to  be  affirmative,  albeit 
accompanied  with  a  suppressed  giggle,  as  if  the  young 
lady  had  just  been  discovered  as  an  answer  to  an  amusing 
conundrum. 

"All  right,"  said  Wynn,  with  an  apparent  accession  of 
boisterous  geniality.  "Tell  her  I  must  see  her,  and  I've 
only  got  a  few  minutes  to  spare.  Tell  her  to  slip  on  any 
thing  and  come  down ;  there's  no  one  here  but  myself,  and 
I've  shut  the  front  door  on  Brother  Burnham.  Ha,  ha !" 
and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  actually  bundled 
the  admiring  Brother  Burnham  out  on  his  own  doorstep. 
There  was  a  light  pattering  on  the  staircase,  and  Nellie 
Wynn,  pink  with  sleep,  very  tall,  very  slim,  hastily 
draped  in  a  white  counterpane  with  a  blue  border  and  a 
general  classic  suggestion,  slipped  into  the  parlor.  At 
the  same  moment  her  father  shut  the  door  behind  her. 
placed  one  hand  on  the  knob,  and  with  the  other  seized 
her  wrist. 

"Where  were  you  yesterday?"  he  asked. 

Nellie  looked  at  him,  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  said, 
"Here." 

"You  were  in  the  Carquinez  Woods  with  Low  Dor- 
man  ;  you  went  there  in  disguise ;  you've  met  him  there 
before.  He  is  your  clandestine  lover;  you  have  taken 
pledges  of  affection  from  him;  you  have — " 

"Stop !"  she  said. 

He  stopped. 

"Did  he  tell  you  this?"  she  asked,  with  an  expression 
of  disdain. 

"No;"  I  overheard  it.  Dunn  and  Brace  were  at  the 
house  waiting  for  you.-  When  the  coach  did  not  bring 


356  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

you,  I  went  to  the  office  to  inquire.  As  I  left  our  door 
I  thought  I  saw  somebody  listening  at  the  parlor  win 
dows.  It  was  only  a  drunken  Mexican  muleteer  leaning 
against  the  house;  but  if  he  heard  nothing,  /  did.  Nellie, 
I  heard  Brace  tell  Dunn  that  he  had  tracked  you  in  your 
disguise  to  the  woods — do  you  hear?  that  when  you  pre 
tended  to  be  here  with  the  girls  you  were  with  Low — 
alone;  that  you  wear  a  ring  that  Low  got  of  a  trader 
here;  that  there  was  a  cabin  in  the  woods — " 

"Stop !"  she  repeated. 

Wynn  again  paused. 

"And  what  did  you  do?"  she  asked. 

"I  heard  they  were  starting  down  there  to  surprise  you 
and  him  together,  and  I  harnessed  up  and  got  ahead  of 
them  in  my  buggy." 

"And  found  me  here,"  she  said,  looking  full  into  his 
eyes. 

He  understood  her  and  returned  the  look.  He  recog 
nized  the  full  importance  of  the  culminating  fact  conveyed 
in  her  words,  and  was  obliged  to  content  himself  with  its 
logical  and  worldly  significance.  It  was  too  late  now  to 
take  her  to  task  for  mere  filial  disobedience;  they  must 
become  allies. 

"Yes,"  he  said  hurriedly;  "but  if  you  value  your  repu 
tation,  if  you  wish  to  silence  both  these  men,  answer  me 
fully." 

"Go  on,"  she  said. 

"Did  you  go  to  the  cabin  in  the  woods  yesterday?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  ever  go  there  with  Low?" 

"No;  I  do  not  know  even  where  it  is." 

Wynn  felt  that  she  was  telling  the  truth.  Nellie  knew 
it;  but  as  she  would  have  been  equally  satisfied  with  an 
equally  efficacious  falsehood,  her  face  remained  .un 
changed. 

"And  when  did  he  leave  you  ?" 

"At  nine  o'clock,  here.     He  went  to  the  hotel." 

"He  saved  his  life,  then,  for  Dunn  is  on  his  way  to 
the  woods  to  kill  him." 

The  jeopardy  of  her  lover  did  not  seem  to  affect  the 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  357 

young  girl  with  alarm,  although  her  eyes  betrayed  some 
interest. 

"Then  Dunn  has  gone  to  the  woods?"  she  said  thought 
fully. 

"He  has."  replied  Wynn. 

"Is  that  all  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  do?" 

"I  was  going  back  to  bed." 

"This  is  no  time  for  trifling,  girl." 

"I  should  think  not,"  she  said,  with  a  yawn;  "it's  too 
early,  or  too  late." 

Wynn  grasped  her  wrist  more  tightly.  "Hear  me ! 
Put  whatever  face  you  like  on  this  affair,  you  are  compro 
mised — and  compromised  with  a  man  you  can't  marry." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  wanted  to  marry  Low,  if  you 
mean  him,"  she  said  quietly. 

"And  Dunn  wouldn't  marry  you  now." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  either." 

"Nellie,"  said  Wynn  excitedly,  "do  you  want  to  drive 
me  mad?  Have  you  nothing  to  say  —  nothing  to 
suggest  ?" 

"Oh,  you  want  me  to  help  you,  do  you!  Why  didn't 
you  say  that  first?  Well,  go  and  bring  Dunn  here." 

"Are  you  mad?  The  man  has  gone  already  in  pursuit 
of  your  lover,  believing  you  with  him." 

"Then  he  will  the  more  readily  come  and  talk  with 
me  without  him.  Will  you  take  the  invitation  —  yes 
or  no?" 

"Yes,  but—" 

"Enough.  On  your  way  there  you  will  stop  at  the 
hotel  and  give  Low  a  letter  from  me." 

"Nellie !" 

"You  shall  read  it,  of  course,"  she  said  scornfully,  "for 
it  will  be  your  text  for  the  conversation  you  will  have 
with  him.  Will  you  please  take  your  hand  from  the  lock 
and  open  the  door?" 

Wynn  mechanically  opened  the  door.  The  young  girl 
flew  up-stairs.  In  a  very  few  moments  she  returned  with 
two  notes :  one  contained  a  few  lines  of  formal  invitation 
to  Dunn;  the  other  read  as  follows: 


358  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

"DEAR  MR.  DORM  AN, — My  father  will  tell  you  how 
deeply  I  regret  that  our  recent  botanical  excursions  in  the 
Carquinez  Woods  have  been  a  source  of  serious  misappre 
hensions  to  those  who  had  a  claim  to  my  consideration, 
and  that  I  shall  be  obliged  to  discontinue  them  for  the 
future.  At  the  same  time  he  wishes  me  to  express  my 
gratitude  for  your  valuable  instruction  and  assistance  in 
that  pleasing  study,  even  though  approaching  events  may 
compel  me  to  relinquish  it  for  other  duties.  May  I  beg 
you  to  accept  the  inclosed  ring  as  a  slight  recognition  of 
my  obligations  to  you? 

"Your  grateful  pupil, 

"NELLIE  WYNN." 

When  he  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  she  handed 
him  a  ring,  which  he  took  mechanically.  He  raised  his 
eyes  to  hers  with  perfectly  genuine  admiration.  "You're 
a  good  girl,  Nellie/'  he  said,  and,  in  a  moment  of  parental 
forgetfulness,  unconsciously  advanced  his  lips  towards 
her  cheek.  But  she  drew  back  in  time  to  recall  him  to  a 
sense  of  that  human  weakness. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  time  for  a  nap  yet,"  she  said,  as  a 
gentle  hint  to  her  embarrassed  parent.  He  nodded  and 
turned  towards  the  door. 

"If  I  were  you,"  she  continued,  repressing  a  yawn,  "I'd 
manage  to  be  seen  on  good  terms  with  Low  at  the  hotel ; 
so  perhaps  you  need  not  give  the  letter  to  him  until  the 
last  thing.  Good-by." 

The  sitting-room  door  opened  and  closed  behind  her  as 
she  slipped  up-stairs,  and  her  father,  without  the  formality 
of  leave-taking,  quietly  let  himself  out  by  the  front  door. 

When  he  drove  into  the  high  road  again,  however,  an 
overlooked  possibility  threatened  for  a  moment  to  indefi 
nitely  postpone  his  amiable  intentions  regarding  Low. 
The  hotel  was  at  the  further  end  of  the  settlement  towards 
the  Carquinez  Woods,  and  as  Wynn  had  nearly  reached  it 
he  was  recalled  to  himself  by  the  sounds  of  hoofs  and 
wheels  rapidly  approaching  from  the  direction  of  the 
Excelsior  turnpike.  Wynn  made  no  doubt  it  was  the 
sheriff  and  Brace.  To  avoid  recognition  at  that  moment, 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS  869 

he  whipped  up  his  horse,  intending  to  keep  the  lead  until 
he  could  turn  into  the  first  cross-road.  But  the  coming 
travelers  had  the  fleetest  horse,  and  finding  it  impossible 
to  distance  them  he  drove  close  to  the  ditch,  pulling  up 
suddenly  as  the  strange  vehicle  was  abreast  of  him,  and 
forcing  them  to  pass  him  at  full  speed,  with  the  result 
already  chronicled.  When  they  had  vanished  in  the  dark 
ness,  Mr.  Wynn,  with  a  heart  overflowing  with  Christian 
thankfulness  and  universal  benevolence,  wheeled  round, 
and  drove  back  to  the  hotel  he  had  already  passed.  To 
pull  up  at  the  veranda  with  a  stentorian  shout,  to  thump 
loudly  at  the  deserted  bar,  to  hilariously  beat  the  panels 
of  the  landlord's  door,  and  commit  a  jocose  assault  and 
battery  upon  that  half-dresssed  and  half-awakened  man. 
was  eminently  characteristic  of  Wynn,  and  part  of  his 
amiable  plans  that  morning. 

"Something  to  wash  this  wood  smoke  from  my  throat, 
Brother  Carter,  and  about  as  much  again  to  prop  open 
your  eyes,"  he  said,  dragging  Carter  before  the  bar,  "and 
glasses  round  for  as  many  of  the  boys  as  are  up  and  stir 
ring  after  a  hard-working  Christian's  rest.  How  goes 
the  honest  publican's  trade,  and  who  have  we  here?" 

"Thar's  Judge  Robinson  and  two  lawyers  from  Sacra 
mento,  Dick  Curson  over  from  Yolo,"  said  Carter,  "and 
that  ar  young  Injin  yarb  doctor  from  the  Carquinez 
Woods.  I  reckon  he's  jist  up — I  noticed  a  light  under 
his  door  as  I  passed." 

"He's  my  man  for  a  friendly  chat  before  breakfast," 
said  Wynn.  "You  needn't  come  up.  I'll  find  the  way. 
I  don't  want  a  light ;  I  reckon  my  eyes  ain't  as  bright  nor 
as  young  as  his,  but  they'll  see  almost  as  far  in  the  dark — 
he !  he !"  And,  nodding  to  Brother  Carter,  he  strode 
along  the  passage,  and  with  no  other  introduction  than  a 
playful  and  preliminary  "Boo !"  burst  into  one  of  the 
rooms.  Low,  who  by  the  light  of  a  single  candle  was 
bending  over  the  plates  of  a  large  quarto,  merely  raised 
his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  intruder.  The  young  man's 
natural  imperturbability,  always  exasperating  to  Wynn, 
seemed  accented  that  morning  by  contrast  with  his  own 
over-acted  animation. 


360  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

"Ah  ha ! — wasting  the  midnight  oil  instead  of  imbibing 
the  morning  dews,"  said  Father  Wynn  archly,  illustrating 
his  metaphor  with  a  movement  of  his  hand  to  his  lips. 
"What  have  we  here?" 

"An  anonymous  gift,"  replied  Low  simply,  recognizing 
the  father  of  Nellie  by  rising  from  his  chair.  "It's  a 
volume  I've  longed  to  possess,  but  never  could  afford  to 
buy.  I  cannot  imagine  who  sent  it  to  me." 

Wynn  was  for  a  moment  startled  by  the  thought  that 
this  recipient  of  valuable  gifts  might  have  influential 
friends.  But  a  glance  at  the  bare  room,  which  looked 
like  a  camp,  and  the  strange,  unconventional  garb  of  its 
occupant,  restored  his  former  convictions.  There  might 
be  a  promise  of  intelligence,  but  scarcely  of  prosperity, 
in  the  figure  before  him. 

"Ah !  We  must  not  forget  that  we  are  watched  over 
in  the  night  season,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  Low's 
shoulder,  with  an  illustration  of  celestial  guardianship 
that  would  have  been  impious  but  for  its  palpable  gro- 
tesqueness.  "No,  sir,  we  know  not  what  a  day  may 
bring  forth." 

Unfortunately,  Low's  practical  mind  did  not  go  beyond 
a  mere  human  interpretation.  It  was  enough,  however, 
to  put  a  new  light  in  his  eye  and  a  faint  color  in  his 
cheek. 

"Could  it  have  been  Miss  Nellie?"  he  asked,  with  half- 
boyish  hesitation. 

Mr.  Wynn  was  too  much  of  a  Christian  not  to  bow 
before  what  appeared  to  him  the  purely  providential  inter 
position  of  this  suggestion.  Seizing  it  and  Low  at  the 
same  moment,  he  playfully  forced  him  down  again  in  his 
chair. 

"Ah,  you  rascal !"  he  said,  with  infinite  archness ;  "that's 
your  game,  is  it?  You  want  to  trap  poor  Father  Wynn. 
You  want  to  make  him  say  'No.'  You  want  to  tempt  him 
to  commit  himself.  No,  sir  ! — never,  sir ! — no,  no  !" 

Firmly  convinced  that  the  present  was  Nellie's,  and  that 
her  father  only  good-humoredly  guessed  it,  the  young 
man's  simple,  truthful  nature  was  embarrassed.  He 
longed  to  express  his  gratitude,  but  feared  to  betray  the 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  861 

young  girl's  trust.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Wynn  speedily 
relieved  his  mind. 

"No,"  he  continued,  bestriding  a  chair,  and  familiarly 
confronting  Low  over  its  back.  "No,  sir — no !  And  you 
want  me  to  say  'No/  don't  you,  regarding  the  little  walks 
of  Nellie  and  a  certain  young  man  in  the  Carquinez 
Woods  ? — ha,  ha !  You'd  like  me  to  say  that  I  knew 
nothing  of  the  botanizings,  and  the  herb  collectings,  and 
the  picknickings  there — he,  he  ! — you  sly  dog !  Perhaps 
you'd  like  to  tempt  Father  Wynn  further,  and  make  him 
swear  he  knows  nothing  of  his  daughter  disguising  her 
self  in  a  duster  and  meeting  another  young  man — isn't  it 
another  young  man  ? — all  alone,  eh  ?  Perhaps  you  want 
poor  old  Father  Wynn  to  say  No.  No,  sir,  nothing  of  the 
kind  ever  occurred.  Ah,  you  young  rascal !" 

Slightly  troubled,  in  spite  of  Wynn's  hearty  manner, 
Low,  with  his  usual  directness,  however,  said,  "I  do  not 
want  anyone  to  deny  that  I  have  seen  Miss  Nellie." 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Wynn,  abandoning  his 
method,  considerably  disconcerted  by  Low's  simplicity, 
and  a  certain  natural  reserve  that  shook  off  his  familiarity. 
"Certainly  it's  a  noble  thing  to  be  able  to  put  your  hand 
on  your  heart  and  say  to  the  world,  'Come  on,  all  of  you ! 
Observe  me ;  I  have  nothing  to  conceal.  I  walk  with  Miss 
Wynn  in  the  woods  as  her  instructor — her  teacher,  in 
fact.  We  cull  a  flower  here  and  there ;  we  pluck  an  herb 
fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  Creator.  We  look,  so  to 
speak,  from  Nature  to  Nature's  God.'  Yes,  my  young 
friend,  we  should  be  the  first  to  repel  the  foul  calumny 
that  could  misinterpret  our  most  innocent  actions." 

"Calumny  ?"  repeated  Low,  starting  to  his  feet.  "What 
calumny?" 

"My  friend,  my  noble  young  friend,  I  recognize  your 
indignation.  I  know  your  worth.  When  I  said  to  Nellie, 
my  only  child,  my  perhaps  too  simple  offspring — a  mere 
wildflower  like  yourself — when  I  said  to  her,  'Go,  my 
child,  walk  in  the  woods  with  this  young  man,  hand  in 
hand.  Let  him  instruct  you  from  the  humblest  roots,  for 
he  has  trodden  in  the  ways  of  the  Almighty.  Gather 
wisdom  from  his  lips,  and  knowledge  from  his  simple 


862  IN   THE    OARQUINEZ    WOODS 

woodman's  craft.  Make,  in  fact,  a  collection  not  only  of 
herbs,  but  of  moral  axioms  and  experience' — I  knew  I 
could  trust  you,  and,  trusting  you,  my  young  friend,  I  felt 
I  could  trust  the  world.  Perhaps  I  was  weak,  foolish. 
But  I  thought  only  of  her  welfare.  I  even  recall  how 
that  to  preserve  the  purity  of  her  garments,  I  bade 
her  don  a  simple  duster;  that,  to  secure  her  from  the 
trifling  companionship  of  others,  I  bade  her  keep  her 
own  counsel,  and  seek  you  at  seasons  known  but  to 
yourselves." 

"But  ...  did  Nellie  .  .  .  understand  you?"  inter 
rupted  Low  hastily. 

"I  see  you  read  her  simple  nature.  Understand  me? 
No,  not  at  first !  Her  maidenly  instinct — perhaps  her 
duty  to  another — took  the  alarm.  I  remember  her  words. 
'But  what  will  Dunn  say?'  she  asked.  'Will  he  not  be 
jealous?' " 

"Dunn !  jealous !  I  don't  understand,"  said  Low,  fixing 
his  eyes  on  Wynn. 

"That's  just  what  I  said  to  Nellie.  'Jealous!'  I  said. 
'What,  Dunn,  your  affianced  husband,  jealous  of  a  mere 
friend — a  teacher,  a  guide,  a  philosopher.  It  is  impos 
sible.'  Well,  sir,  she  was  right.  He  is  jealous.  And, 
more  than  that,  he  has  imparted  his  jealousy  to  others ! 
In  other  words,  he  has  made  a  scandal !" 

Low's  eyes  flashed.  "Where  is  your  daughter  now?" 
he  said  sternly. 

"At  present  in  bed,  suffering  from  a  nervous  attack 
brought  on  by  these  unjust  suspicions.  She  appreciates 
your  anxiety,  and,  knowing  that  you  could  not  see  her, 
told  me  to  give  you  this."  He  handed  Low  the  ring  and 
the  letter. 

The  climax  had  been  forced,  and,  it  must  be  confessed, 
was  by  no  means  the  one  Mr.  Wynn  had  fully  arranged 
in  his  own  inner  consciousness.  He  had  intended  to 
take  an  ostentatious  leave  of  Low  in  the  bar-room,  deliver 
the  letter  with  archness,  and  escape  before  a  possible 
explosion.  He  consequently  backed  towards  the  door 
for  an  emergency.  But  he  was  again  at  fault.  That 
unaffected  stoical  fortitude  in  acute  suffering,  which  was 


IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  363 

the  one  remaining  pride  and  glory  of  Low's  race,  was 
yet  to  be  revealed  to  Wynn's  civilized  eyes. 

The  young  man  took  the  letter,  and  read  it  without 
changing  a  muscle,  folded  the  ring  in  it,  and  dropped  it 
into  his  haversack.  Then  he  picked  up  his  blanket, 
threw  it  over  his  shoulder,  took  his  trusty  rifle  in  his 
hand,  and  turned  towards  Wynn  as  if  coldly  surprised 
that  he  was  still  standing  there. 

"Are  you — are  you — going?"  stammered  Wynn. 

"Are  you  not?"  replied  Low  dryly,  leaning  on  his 
rifle  for  a  moment  as  if  waiting  for  Wynn  to  precede 
him.  The  preacher  looked  at  him  a  moment,  mumbled 
something,  and  then  shambled  feebly  and  ineffectively 
down  the  staircase  before  Low,  with  a  painful  suggestion 
to  the  ordinary  observer  of  being  occasionally  urged 
thereto  by  the  moccasin  of  the  young  man  behind  him. 

On  reaching  the  lower  hall,  however,  he  endeavored 
to  create  a  diversion  in  his  favor  by  dashing  into  the 
bar-room  and  clapping  the  occupants  on  the  back  with 
indiscriminate  playfulness.  But  here  again  he  seemed 
to  be  disappointed.  To  his  great  discomfiture,  a  large 
man  not  only  returned  his  salutation  with  powerful  levity, 
but  with  equal  playfulness  seized  him  in  his  arms,  and 
after  an  ingenious  simulation  of  depositing  him  in  the 
horse-trough  set  him  down  in  affected  amazement. 
"Bleth't  if  I  didn't  think  from  the  weight  of  your  hand 
it  wath  my  old  friend,  Thacramento  Bill,"  said  Curson 
apologetically,  with  a  wink  at  the  bystanders.  "That'th 
the  way  Bill  alwayth  uthed  to  tackle  hith  friendth,  till 
he  wath  one  day  bounthed  by  a  prithe-fighter  in  Frithco, 
whom  he  had  mithtaken  for  a  mithionary."  As  Mr. 
Curson's  reputation  was  of  a  quality  that  made  any  form 
of  apology  from  him  instantly  acceptable,  the  amused 
spectators  made  way  for  him  as,  recognizing  Low,  who 
was  just  leaving  the  hotel,  he  turned  coolly  from  them 
and  walked  towards  him. 

"Halloo !"  he  said,  extending  his  hand.  "You're  the 
man  I'm  waiting  for.  Did  you  get  a  book  from  the 
exthpreth  offithe  latht  night?" 

"I  did.     Why?" 


364  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

"It'th  all  right.  Ath  I'm  rethponthible  for  it,  I  only 
wanted  to  know." 

"Did  you  send  it?"  asked  Low,  quickly  fixing  his  eyes 
on  his  face. 

"Well,  not  exactly  me.  But  it'th  not  worth  making 
a  mythtery  of  it.  Teretha  gave  me  a  commithion  to 
buy  it  and  thend  it  to  you  anonymouthly.  That'th  a 
woman'th  nonthenth,  for  how  could  thee  get  a  retheipt 
for  it?" 

"Then  it  was  her  present,"  said  Low  gloomily. 

"Of  courthe.  It  wathn't  mine,  my  boy.  I'd  have  thent 
you  a  Tharp'th  rifle  in  plathe  of  that  muthle  loader  you 
carry,  or  thomething  thenthible.  But,  I  thay !  what'th 
up?  You  look  ath  if  you  had  been  running  all  night." 

Low  grasped  his  hand.  "Thank  you,"  he  said  hur 
riedly;  "but  it's  nothing.  Only  I  must  be  back  to  the 
woods  early.  Good-by." 

But  Curson  retained  Low's  hand  in  his  own  powerful 

grip- 

"I'll  go  with  you  a  bit  further,"  he  said.  "In  fact, 
I've  got  thomething  to  thay  to  you ;  only  don't  be  in 
thuch  a  hurry;  the  woodth  can  wait  till  you  get  there." 
Quietly  compelling  Low  to  alter  his  own  characteristic 
Indian  stride  to  keep  pace  with  his,  he  went  on:  "I  don't 
mind  thaying  I  rather  cottoned  to  you  from  the  time 
you  acted  like  a  white  man — no  offenthe — to  Teretha. 
She  thayth  you  were  left  when  a  child  lying  round, 
jutht  ath  promithcuouthly  ath  she  wath;  and  if  I  can 
do  anything  towardth  putting  you  on  the  trail  of  your 
people,  I'll  do  it.  I  know  thome  of  the  voyageurth  who 
traded  with  the  Cherokeeth,  and  your  father  wath  one — 
wathn't  he?"  He  glanced  at  Low's  utterly  abstracted  and 
immobile  face.  "I  thay,  you  don't  theem  to  take  a  hand 
in  thith  game,  pardner.  What'th  the  row?  Ith  anything 
wrong  over  there?"  and  he  pointed  to  the  Carquinez 
Woods,  which  were  just  looming  out  of  the  morning 
horizon  in  the  distance. 

Low  stopped.  The  last  words  of  his  companion  seemed 
to  recall  him  to  himself.  He  raised  his  eyes  automatically 
to  the  woods  and  started. 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  365 

"There  is  something  wrong  over  there,"  he  said  breath 
lessly.  "Look !" 

"I  thee  nothing,"  said  Curson,  beginning  to  doubt 
Low's  sanity ;  "nothing  more  than  I  thaw  an  hour  ago." 

"Look  again.  Don't  you  see  that  smoke  rising  straight 
up?  It  isn't  blown  over  there  from  the  Divide;  it's  new 
smoke  !  The  fire  is  in  the  woods !" 

"I  reckon  that'th  so,"  muttered  Curson,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand.  "But,  hullo !  wait  a  minute !  We'll 
get  hortheth.  I  say !"  he  shouted,  forgetting  his  lisp  in 
his  excitement — "stop !"  But  Low  had  already  lowered 
his  head  and  darted  forward  like  an  arrow. 

In  a  few  moments  he  had  left  not  only  his  companion 
but  the  last  straggling  houses  of  the  outskirts  far  behind 
him,  and  had  struck  out  in  a  long,  swinging  trot  for  the 
disused  "cut-off."  Already  he  fancied  he  heard  the  note 
of  clamor  in  Indian  Spring,  and  thought  he  distinguished 
the  sound  of  hurrying  hoofs  on  the  great  highway.  But 
the  sunken  trail  hid  it  from  his  view.  From  the  column 
of  smoke  now  plainly  visible  in  the  growing  morning 
light  he  tried  to  locate  the  scene  of  the  conflagration. 
It  was  evidently  not  a  fire  advancing  regularly  from 
the  outer  skirt  of  the  wood,  communicated  to  it  from  the 
Divide;  it  was  a  local  outburst  near  its  centre.  It  was 
not  in  the  direction  of  his  cabin  in  the  tree.  There  was  no 
immediate  danger  to  Teresa,  unless  fear  drove  her  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  wood  into  the  hands  of  those  who  might 
recognize  her.  The  screaming  of  jays  and  ravens  above 
his  head  quickened  his  speed,  as  it  heralded  the  rapid 
advance  of  the  flames;  and  the  unexpected  apparition  of 
a  bounding  body,  flattened  and  flying  over  the  yellow 
plain,  told  him  that  even  the  secure  retreat  of  the  moun 
tain  wild-cat  had  been  invaded.  A  sudden  recollection  of 
Teresa's  uncontrollable  terror  that  first  night  smote  him 
with  remorse  and  redoubled  his  efforts.  Alone  in  the 
track  of  these  frantic  and  bewildered  beasts,  to  what 
madness  might  she  not  be  driven ! 

The  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  from  the  high  road  turned 
his  course  momentarily  in  that  direction.  The  smoke  was 
curling  lazily  over  the  heads  of  the  party  of  men  in  the 


366  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

road,  while  the  huge  bulk  of  a  grizzly  was  disappearing 
in  the  distance.  A  battue  of  the  escaping  animals  had 
commenced !  In  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  he  caught 
at  the  horrible  suggestion,  and  resolved  to  save  her  from 
them  or  die  with  her  there. 

How  fast  he  ran,  or  the  time  it  took  him  to  reach  the 
woods,  has  never  been  known.  Their  outlines  were 
already  hidden  when  he  entered  them.  To  a  sense  less 
keen,  a  courage  less  desperate,  and  a  purpose  less  unal 
tered  than  Low's,  the  wood  would  have  been  impene 
trable.  The  central  fire  was  still  confined  to  the  lofty 
tree  tops,  but  the  downward  rush  of  wind  from  time  to 
time  drove  the  smoke  into  the  aisles  in  blinding  and 
suffocating  volumes.  To  simulate  the  creeping  animals, 
and  fall  to  the  ground  on  hands  and  knees,  feel  his  way 
through  the  underbrush  when  the  smoke  was  densest, 
or  take  advantage  of  its  momentary  lifting,  and  without 
uncertainty,  mistake,  or  hesitation  glide  from  tree  to  tree 
in  one  undeviating  course,  was  possible  only  to  an  expe 
rienced  woodsman.  To  keep  his  reason  and  insight  so 
clear  as  to  be  able  in  the  midst  of  this  bewildering  con 
fusion  to  shape  that  course  so  as  to  intersect  the  wild 
and  unknown  tract  of  an  inexperienced,  frightened  wan 
derer  belonged  to  Low,  and  Low  alone.  He  was  making 
his  way  against  the  wind  towards  the  fire.  He  had 
reasoned  that  she  was  either  in  comparative  safety  to 
windward  of  it,  or  he  should  meet  her  being  driven 
towards  him  by  it,  or  find  her  succumbed  and  fainting 
at  its  feet.  To  do  this  he  must  penetrate  the  burning 
belt,  and  then  pass  under  the  blazing  dome.  He  was 
already  upon  it ;  he  could  see  the  falling  fire  dropping  like 
rain  or  blown  like  gorgeous  blossoms  of  the  conflagration 
across  his  path.  The  space  was  lit  up  brilliantly.  The 
vast  shafts  of  dull  copper  cast  no  shadow  below,  but 
there  was  no  sign  nor  token  of  any  human  being.  For 
a  moment  the  young  man  was  at  fault.  It  was  true  this 
hidden  heart  of  the  forest  bore  no  undergrowth ;  the  cool 
matted  carpet  of  the  aisles  seemed  to  quench  the  glowing 
fragments  as  they  fell.  Escape  might  be  difficult,  but 
not  impossible,  yet  every  moment  was  precious.  He 


IN   THE   CAEQUINEZ   WOODS  367 

leaned  against  a  tree,  and  sent  his  voice  like  a  clarion 
before  him:  "Teresa!"  There  was  no  reply.  He  called 
again.  A  faint  cry  at  his  back  from  the  trail  he  had 
just  traversed  made  him  turn.  Only  a  few  paces  behind 
him,  blinded  and  staggering,  but  following  like  a  beaten 
and  wounded  animal,  Teresa,  halted,  knelt,  clasped  her 
hands,  and  dumbly  held  them  out  before  her.  "Teresa !" 
he  cried  again,  and  sprang  to  her  side. 

She  caught  him  by  the  knees,  and  lifted  her  face  im 
ploringly  to  his. 

"Say  that  again !"  she  cried,  passionately.  "Tell  me  it 
was  Teresa  you  called,  and  no  other !  You  have  come 
back  for  me !  You  would  not  let  me  die  here  alone !" 

He  lifted  her  tenderly  in  his  arms,  and  cast  a  rapid 
glance  around  him.  It  might  have  been  his  fancy,  but 
there  seemed  a  dull  glow  in  the  direction  he  had  come. 

"You  do  not  speak!"  she  said.  "Tell  me!  You  did 
not  come  here  to  seek  her?" 

"Whom?"  he  said  quickly. 

"Nellie !" 

With  a  sharp  cry  he  let  her  slip  to  the  ground.  All 
the  pent-up  agony,  rage,  and  mortification  of  the  last  hour 
broke  from  him  in  that  inarticulate  outburst.  Then, 
catching  her  hands  again,  he  dragged  her  to  his  level. 

"Hear  me !"  he  cried,  disregarding  the  whirling  smoke 
and  the  fiery  baptism  that  sprinkled  them — "hear  me ! 
If  you  value  your  life,  if  you  value  your  soul,  and  if  you 
do  not  want  me  to  cast  you  to  the  beasts  like  Jezebel  of 
old,  never — never  take  that  accursed  name  again  upon 
your  lips.  Seek  her — her?  Yes!  Seek  her  to  tie  her 
like  a  witch's  daughter  of  hell  to  that  blazing  tree !"  He 
stopped.  "Forgive  me,"  he  said  in  a  changed  voice.  "I'm 
mad,  and  forgetting  myself  and  you.  Come." 

Without  noticing  the  expression  of  half-savage  delight 
that  had  passed  across  her  face,  he  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  passing  her 
hands  vaguely  across  his  breast,  as  if  to  reassure  herself 
of  his  identity. 

"To  our  camp  by  the  scarred  tree,"  he  replied. 

"Not  there,  not  there,"  she  said,  hurriedly.    "I  was 


868  IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

driven  from  there  just  now.  I  thought  the  fire  began 
there  until  I  came  here." 

Then  it  was  as  he  feared.  Obeying  the  same  mysterious 
law  that  had  launched  this  fatal  fire  like  a  thunderbolt 
from  the  burning  mountain  crest  five  miles  away  into  the 
heart  of  the  Carquinez  Woods,  it  had  again  leaped  a  mile 
beyond,  and  was  hemming  them  between  two  narrowing 
lines  of  fire.  But  Low  was  not  daunted.  Retracing  his 
steps  through  the  blinding  smoke,  he  strode  off  at  right 
angles  to  the  trail  near  the  point  where  he  had  entered 
the  wood.  It  was  the  spot  where  he  had  first  lifted  Nellie 
in  his  arms  to  carry  her  to  the  hidden  spring.  If  any 
recollection  of  it  crossed  his  mind  at  that  moment,  it 
was  only  shown  in  his  redoubled  energy.  He  did  not 
glide  through  the  thick  underbrush,  as  on  that  day,  but 
seemed  to  take  a  savage  pleasure  in  breaking  through 
it  with  sheer  brute  force.  Once  Teresa  insisted  upon 
relieving  him  of  the  burden  of  her  weight,  but  after  a 
few  steps  she  staggered  blindly  against  him,  and  would 
fain  have  recourse  once  more  to  his  strong  arms.  And 
so,  alternately  staggering,  bending,  crouching,  or  bounding 
and  crashing  on,  but  always  in  one  direction,  they  burst 
through  the  jealous  rampart,  and  came  upon  the  sylvan 
haunt  of  the  hidden  spring.  The  great  angle  of  the  half- 
fallen  tree  acted  as  a  barrier  to  the  wind  and  drifting 
smoke,  and  the  cool  spring  sparkled  and  bubbled  in  the 
almost  translucent  air.  He  laid  her  down  beside  the 
water,  and  bathed  her  face  and  hands.  As  he  did  so  his 
quick  eye  caught  sight  of  a  woman's  handkerchief  lying 
at  the  foot  of  the  disrupted  root.  Dropping  Teresa's 
hand,  he  walked  towards  it,  and  with  the  toe  of  his 
moccasin  gave  it  one  vigorous  kick  into  the  ooze  at  the 
overflow  of  the  spring.  He  turned  to  Teresa,  but  she 
evidently  had  not  ncticed  the  act. 

"Where  are  you?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile. 

Something  in  her  movement  struck  him !  He  came 
towards  her,  and  bending  down  looked  into  her  face. 
"Teresa!  Good  God!— look  at  me!  What  has  hap 
pened  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.     There  was  a  slight  film 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  369 

across  them ;  the  lids  were  blackened ;  the  beautiful  lashes 
gone  forever ! 

"I  see  you  a  little  now,  I  think,"  she  said,  with  a  smile, 
passing  her  hands  vaguely  over  his  face.  "It  must  have 
happened  when  he  fainted,  and  I  had  to  drag  him  through 
the  blazing  brush ;  both  my  hands  were  full,  and  I  could 
not  cover  my  eyes." 

"Drag  whom?"  said  Low,  quickly. 

"Why,  Dunn." 

"Dunn!     He  here?"  said  Low,  hoarsely. 

"Yes;  didn't  you  read  the  note  I  left  on  the  herbarium? 
Didn't  you  come  to  the  camp-fire?"  she  asked  hurriedly, 
clasping  his  hands.  "Tell  me  quickly  !" 

"No !" 

"Then  you  were  not  there — then  you  didn't  leave  me 
to  die?" 

"No !  I  swear  it,  Teresa !"  the  stoicism  that  had  up 
held  his  own  agony  breaking  down  before  her  strong 
emotion. 

"Thank  God !"  She  threw  her  arms  around  him,  and 
hid  her  aching  eyes  in  his  troubled  breast. 

"Tell  me  all,  Teresa,"  he  whispered  in  her  listening  ear. 
"Don't  move;  stay  there,  and  tell  me  all." 

With  her  face  buried  in  his  bosom,  as  if  speaking  to 
his  heart  alone,  she  told  him  part,  but  not  all.  With  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  a  smile  on  her  lips,  radiant  with 
new-found  happiness,  she  told  him  how  she  had  overheard 
the  plans  of  Dunn  and  Brace,  how  she  had  stolen  their 
conveyance  to  warn  him  in  time.  But  here  she  stopped, 
dreading  to  say  a  word  that  would  shatter  the  hope 
she  was  building  upon  his  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling 
for  Nellie.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to  repeat  their 
interview — that  would  come  later,  when  they  were  safe 
and  out  of  danger;  now  not  even  the  secret  of  his  birth 
must  come  between  them  with  its  distraction,  to  mar  their 
perfect  communion.  She  faltered  that  Dunn  had  fainted 
from  weakness,  and  that  she  had  dragged  him  out  of 
danger.  "He  will  never  interfere  with  us — I  mean,"  she 
said  softly,  "with  me  again.  I  can  promise  you  that  as 
well  as  if  he  had  sworn  it." 


370  IN   THE   CARQUINEZ   WOODS 

"Let  him  pass,  now,"  said  Low;  "that  will  come  later 
on,"  he  added,  unconsciously  repeating  her  thought  in  a 
tone  that  made  her  heart  sick.  "But  tell  me,  Teresa,  why 
did  you  go  to  Excelsior?" 

She  buried  her  head  still  deeper,  as  if  to  hide  it.  He 
felt  her  broken  heart  beat  against  his  own;  he  was  con 
scious  of  a  depth  of  feeling  her  rival  had  never  awakened 
in  him.  The  possibility  of  Teresa  loving  him  had  never 
occurred  to  his  simple  nature.  He  bent  his  head  and 
kissed  her.  She  was  frightened,  and  unloosed  her  cling 
ing  arms;  but  he  retained  her  hand,  and  said,  "We  will 
leave  this  accursed  place,  and  you  shall  go  with  me  as 
you  said  you  would;  nor  need  you  ever  leave  me,  unless 
you  wish  it." 

She  could  hear  the  beating  of  her  own  heart  through 
his  words;  she  longed  to  look  at  the  eyes  and  lips  that 
told  her  this,  and  read  the  meaning  his  voice  alone  could 
not  entirely  convey.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  the  loss 
of  her  sight.  She  did  not  know  that  it  was,  in  this  mo 
ment  of  happiness,  the  last  blessing  vouchsafed  to  her 
miserable  life. 

A  few  moments  of  silence  followed,  broken  only  by 
the  distant  rumor  of  the  conflagration  and  the  crash  of 
falling  boughs. 

"It  may  be  an  hour  yet,"  he  whispered,  "before  the 
fire  has  swept  a  path  for  us  to  the  road  below.  We 
are  safe  here,  unless  some  sudden  current  should  draw 
the  fire  down  upon  us.  You  are  not  frightened?"  She 
pressed  his  hand;  she  was  thinking  of  the  pale  face 
of  Dunn,  lying  in  the  secure  retreat  she  had  purchased 
for  him  at  such  a  sacrifice.  Yet  the  possibility  of  danger 
to  him  now  for  a  moment  marred  her  present  happiness 
and  security.  "You  think  the  fire  will  not  go  north  of 
where  you  found  me?"  she  asked  softly. 

"I  think  not,"  he  said,  "but  I  will  reconnoitre.  Stay 
where  you  are." 

They  pressed  hands,  and  parted.  He  leaped  upon  the 
slanting  trunk  and  ascended  it  rapidly.  She  waited  in 
mute  expectation. 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  of  the  root  on  which 


IN   THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS  371 

she  sat,  a  deafening  crash,  and  she  was  thrown  forward 
on  her  face. 

The  vast  bulk  of  the  leaning  tree,  dislodged  from  its 
aerial  support  by  the  gradual  sapping  of  the  spring  at  its 
roots,  or  by  the  crumbling  of  the  bark  from  the  heat,  had 
slipped,  made  a  half  revolution,  and,  falling,  overbore 
the  lesser  trees  in  its  path,  and  tore,  in  its  resistless 
momentum,  a  broad  opening  to  the  underbrush. 

With  a  cry  to  Low,  Teresa  staggered  to  her  feet. 
There  was  an  interval  of  hideous  silence,  but  no  reply. 
She  called  again.  There  was  a  sudden  deepening  roar, 
the  blast  of  a  fiery  furnace  swept  through  the  opening, 
a  thousand  luminous  points  around  her  burst  into  fire, 
and  in  an  instant  she  was  lost  in  a  whirlwind  of  smoke 
and  flame  !  From  the  onset  of  its  fury  to  its  culmination 
twenty  minutes  did  not  elapse;  but  in  that  interval  a 
radius  of  two  hundred  yards  around  the  hidden  spring 
was  swept  of  life  and  light  and  motion. 

For  the  rest  of  that  day  and  part  of  the  night  a  pall 
of  smoke  hung  above  the  scene  of  desolation.  It  lifted 
only  towards  the  morning,  when  the  moon,  rising  high, 
picked  out  in  black  and  silver  the  shrunken  and  silent 
columns  of  those  roofless  vaults,  shorn  of  base  and  capi 
tal.  It  flickered  on  the  still,  overflowing  pool  of  the 
hidden  spring,  and  shone  upon  the  white  face  of  Low, 
who,  with  a  rootlet  of  the  fallen  tree  holding  him  down 
like  an  arm  across  his  breast,  seemed  to  be  sleeping 
peacefully  in  the  sleeping  water. 


Contemporaneous  history  touched  him  as  briefly,  but 
not  as  gently.  "It  is  now  definitely  ascertained,"  said 
"The  Slumgullion  Mirror,"  "that  Sheriff  Dunn  met  his 
fate  in  the  Carquinez  Woods  in  the  performance  of  his 
duty;  that  fearless  man  having  received  information  of 
the  concealment  of  a  band  of  horse  thieves  in  their 
recesses.  The  desperadoes  are  presumed  to  have  escaped, 
as  the  only  remains  found  are  those  of  two  wretched 
tramps,  one  of  whom  is  said  to  have  been  a  digger,  who 


372  IN    THE    CARQUINEZ    WOODS 

supported  himself  upon  roots  and  herbs,  and  the  other 
a  degraded  half-white  woman.  It  is  not  unreasonable 
to  suppose  that  the  fire  originated  through  their  care 
lessness,  although  Father  Wynn  of  the  First  Baptist 
Church,  in  his  powerful  discourse  of  last  Sunday,  pointed 
at  the  warning  and  lesson  of  such  catastrophes.  It  may 
not  be  out  of  place  here  to  say  that  the  rumors  regarding 
an  engagement  between  the  pastor's  accomplished 
daughter  and  the  late  lamented  sheriff  are  utterly  with 
out  foundation,  as  it  has  been  an  on  dit  for  some  time 
in  all  well-informed  circles  that  the  indefatigable  Mr. 
Brace,  of  Wells,  Fargo  and  Co.'s  Express,  will  shortly 
lead  the  lady  to  the  hymeneal  altar." 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 


SNOW-BOUND  AT  EAGLE'S 


CHAPTER  I 

FOR  some  moments  profound  silence  and  darkness  had 
accompanied  a  Sierran  stage-coach  towards  the  summit. 
The  huge,  dim  bulk  of  the  vehicle,  swaying  noiselessly  on 
its  straps,  glided  onward  and  upward  as  if  obeying  some 
mysterious  impulse  from  behind,  so  faint  and  indefinite 
appeared  its  relation  to  the  viewless  and  silent  horses 
ahead.  The  shadowy  trunks  of  tall  trees  that  seemed  to 
approach  the  coach  windows,  look  in,  and  then  move 
hurriedly  away,  were  the  only  distinguishable  objects. 
Yet  even  these  were  so  vague  and  unreal  that  they  might 
have  been  the  mere  phantoms  of  some  dream  of  the  half- 
sleeping  passengers ;  for  the  thickly-strewn  needles  of  the 
pine,  that  choked  the  way  and  deadened  all  sound,  yielded 
under  the  silently-crushing  wheels  a  faint  soporific  odor 
that  seemed  to  benumb  their  senses,  already  slipping  back 
into  unconsciousness  during  the  long  ascent.  Suddenly 
the  stage  stopped. 

Three  of  the  four  passengers  inside  struggled  at  once 
into  upright  wakefulness.  The  fourth  passenger,  John 
Hale,  had  not  been  sleeping,  and  turned  impatiently 
towards  the  window.  It  seemed  to  him  that  two  of  the 
moving  trees  had  suddenly  become  motionless  outside. 
One  of  them  moved  again,  and  the  door  opened  quickly 
but  quietly,  as  of  itself. 

"Git  down,"  said  a  voice  in  the  darkness. 

All  the  passengers  except  Hale  started.  The  man  next 
to  him  moved  his  right  hand  suddenly  behind  him,  but 
as  quickly  stopped.  One  of  the  motionless  trees  had 
apparently  closed  upon  the  vehicle,  and  what  had  seemed 

375 


376  SXOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

to  be  a  bough  projecting  from  it  at  right  angles  changed 
slowly  into  the  faintly  shining  double-barrels  of  a  gun 
at  the  window. 

"Drop  that !"  said  the  voice. 

The  man  who  had  moved  uttered  a  short  laugh,  and 
returned  his  hand  empty  to  his  knees.  The  two  others 
perceptibly  shrugged  their  shoulders  as  over  a  game 
that  was  lost.  The  remaining  passenger,  John  Hale, 
fearless  by  nature,  inexperienced  by  habit,  awaking 
suddenly  to  the  truth,  conceived  a  desperate  resistance. 
But  without  his  making  a  gesture  this  was  instinctively 
felt  by  the  others;  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  turned 
spontaneously  on  him,  and  he  was  vaguely  conscious 
of  a  certain  contempt  and  impatience  of  him  in  his 
companions. 

"Git  down,"  repeated  the  voice  imperatively. 

The  three  passengers  descended.  Hale,  furious,  alert, 
but  helpless  of  any  opportunity,  followed.  He  was  sur 
prised  to  find  the  stage-driver  and  express  messenger 
standing  beside  him;  he  had  not  heard  them  dismount. 
He  instinctively  looked  towards  the  horses.  He  could 
see  nothing. 

"Hold  up  your  hands !" 

One  of  the  passengers  had  already  lifted  his,  in  a  weary, 
perfunctory  way.  The  others  did  the  same  reluctantly 
and  awkwardly,  but  apparently  more  from  the  conscious 
ness  of  the  ludicrousness  of  their  attitude  than  from  any 
sense  of  danger.  The  rays  of  a  bull's-eye  lantern,  deftly 
managed  by  invisible  hands,  while  it  left  the  intruders  in 
shadow,  completely  illuminated  the  faces  and  figures  of 
the  passengers.  In  spite  of  the  majestic  obscurity  and 
silence  of  surrounding  nature,  the  group  of  humanity 
thus  illuminated  was  more  farcical  than  dramatic.  A 
scrap  of  newspaper,  part  of  a  sandwich,  and  an  orange 
peel  that  had  fallen  from  the  floor  of  the  coach,  brought 
into  equal  prominence  by  the  searching  light,  completed 
the  absurdity. 

"There's  a  man  here  with  a  package  of  greenbacks," 
said  the  voice,  with  an  official  coolness  that  lent  a  certain 
suggestion  of  Custom  House  inspection  to  the  transaction ; 


SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S  377 

"who  is  it?"  The  passengers  looked  at  each  other,  and 
their  glance  finally  settled  on  Hale. 

"It's  not  him"  continued  the  voice,  with  a  slight  tinge 
of  contempt  on  the  emphasis.  "You'll  save  time  and 
searching,  gentlemen,  if  you'll  tote  it  out.  If  we've  got 
to  go  through  every  one  of  you  we'll  try  to  make  it 
pay." 

The  significant  threat  was  not  unheeded.  The  pas 
senger  who  had  first  moved  when  the  stage  stopped  put 
his  hand  to  his  breast. 

"T'other  pocket  first,  if  you  please,"  said  the  voice. 

The  man  laughed,  drew  a  pistol  from  his  hip  pocket, 
and,  under  the  strong  light  of  the  lantern,  laid  it  on  a 
spot  in  the  road  indicated  by  the  voice.  A  thick  envelope, 
taken  from  his  breast  pocket,  was  laid  beside  it.  "I  told 
the  d — d  fools  that  gave  it  to  me,  instead  of -sending  it  by 
express,  it  would  be  at  their  own  risk,"  he  said  apolo 
getically. 

"As  it's  going  with  the  express  now  it's  all  the  same," 
said  the  inevitable  humorist  of  the  occasion,  pointing  to 
the  despoiled  express  treasure-box  already  in  the  road. 

The  intention  and  deliberation  of  the  outrage  was  plain 
enough  to  Hale's  inexperience  now.  Yet  he  could  not 
understand  the  cool  acquiescence  of  his  fellow-passengers, 
and  was  furious.  His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  a 
voice  which  seemed  to  come  from  a  greater  distance.  He 
fancied  it  was  even  softer  in  tone,  as  if  a  certain  austerity 
was  relaxed. 

"Step  in  as  quick  as  you  like,  gentlemen.  You've  five 
minutes  to  wait,  Bill." 

The  passengers  reentered  the  coach;  the  driver  and 
express  messenger  hurriedly  climbed  to  their  places. 
Hale  would  have  spoken,  but  an  impatient  gesture  from 
his  companions  stopped  him.  They  were  evidently  listen 
ing  for  something ;  he  listened  too. 

Yet  the  silence  remained  unbroken.  It  seemed  incred 
ible  that  there  should  be  no  indication  near  or  far  of  that 
forceful  presence  which  a  moment  ago  had  been  so 
dominant.  No  rustle  in  the  wayside  "brush,"  nor  echo 
from  the  rocky  canon  below,  betrayed  a  sound  of  their 


378  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

flight.  A  faint  breeze  stirred  the  tall  tips  of  the  pines, 
a  cone  dropped  on  the  stage  roof,  one  of  the  invisible 
horses  that  seemed  to  be  listening  too  moved  slightly  in 
his  harness.  But  this  only  appeared  to  accentuate  the 
profound  stillness.  The  moments  were  growing  inter 
minable,  when  the  voice,  so  near  as  to  startle  Hale,  broke 
once  more  from  the  surrounding  obscurity. 

"Good-night !" 

It  was  the  signal  that  they  were  free.  The  driver's 
whip  cracked  like  a  pistol  shot,  the  horses  sprang  furi 
ously  forward,  the  huge  vehicle  lurched  ahead,  and  then 
bounded  violently  after  them.  When  Hale  could  make 
his  voice  heard  in  the  confusion — a  confusion  which 
seemed  greater  from  the  colorless  intensity  of  their  last 
few  moments'  experience — he  said  hurriedly,  "Then  that 
fellow  was  there  all  the  time?" 

"I  reckon,"  returned  his  companion,  "he  stopped  five 
minutes  to  cover  the  driver  with  his  double-barrel,  until 
the  two  other  men  got  off  with  the  treasure." 

"The  two  others !"  gasped  Hale.  "Then  there  were  only 
three  men,  and  we  six." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  passenger  who 
had  given  up  the  greenbacks  drawled,  with  a  slow,  ir 
ritating  tolerance,  "I  reckon  you're  a  stranger  here?" 

"I  am — to  this  sort  of  thing,  certainly,  though  I  live  a 
dozen  miles  from  here,  at  Eagle's  Court,"  returned  Hale 
scornfully. 

"Then  you're  the  chap  that's  doin'  that  fancy  ranchin' 
over  at  Eagle's,"  continued  the  man  lazily. 

"Whatever  I'm  doing  at  Eagle's  Court,  I'm  not  ashamed 
of  it,"  said  Hale  tartly;  "and  that's  more  than  I  can  say 
of  what  I've  done — or  haven't  done — to-night.  I've  been 
one  of  six  men  overawed  and  robbed  by  three" 

"As  to  the  over-awin',  ez  you  call  it — mebbee  you  know 
more  about  it  than  us.  As  to  the  robbin' — ez  far  as  I  kin 
remember,  you  haven't  unloaded  much.  Ef  you're  talkin' 
about  what  oughter  have  been  done,  I'll  tell  you  what 
could  have  happened.  P'r'aps  ye  noticed  that  when  he 
pulled  up  I  made  a  kind  of  grab  for  my  wepping  behind 
me?" 


SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S  379 

"I  did;  and  you  wern't  quick  enough,"  said  Hale 
shortly. 

"I  wasn't  quick  enough,  and  that  saved  you.  For  ef  I 
got  that  pistol  out  and  in  sight  o'  that  man  that  held 
the  gun — " 

"Well,"  said  Hale  impatiently,  "he'd  have  hesitated." 

"He'd  hev  blown  you  with  both  barrels  outer  the 
window,  and  that  before  I'd  got  a  half-cock  on  my 
revolver." 

"But  that  would  have  been  only  one  man  gone,  and 
there  would  have  been  five  of  you  left,"  said  Hale 
haughtily. 

"That  might  have  been,  ef  you'd  contracted  to  take 
the  hull  charge  of  two  handfuls  of  buck-shot  and  slugs; 
but  ez  one  eighth  o'  that  amount  would  have  done  your 
business,  and  yet  left  enough  to  have  gone  round,  pro- 
miskiss,  and  satisfied  the  other  passengers,  it  wouldn't  do 
to  kalkilate  upon." 

"But  the  express  messenger  and  the  driver  were  armed," 
continued  Hale. 

"They  were  armed,  but  not  fixed;  that  makes  all  the 
difference." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"I  reckon  you  know  what  a  duel  is?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  the  chances  agin  us  was  about  the  same  as 
you'd  have  ef  you  was  put  up  agin  another  chap  who  was 
allowed  to  draw  a  bead  on  you,  and  the  signal  to  fire  was 
your  drawin'  your  weapon.  You  may  be  a  stranger  to 
this  sort  o'  thing,  and  p'r'aps  you  never  fought  a  duel, 
but  even  then  you  wouldn't  go  foolin'  your  life  away  on 
any  such  chances." 

Something  in  the  man's  manner,  as  in  a  certain  sly 
amusement  the  other  passengers  appeared  to  extract  from 
the  conversation,  impressed  Hale,  already  beginning  to  be 
conscious  of  the  ludicrous  insufficiency  of  his  own  griev 
ance  beside  that  of  his  interlocutor. 

"Then  you  mean  to  say  this  thing  is  inevitable,"  said 
he  bitterly,  but  less  aggressively. 

"Ez  long  ez  they  hunt  you;  when  you  hunt  them  you've 


380  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

got  the  advantage,  allus  provided  you  know  how  to  get 
at  them  ez  well  as  they  know  how  to  get  at  you.  This 
yer  coach  is  bound  to  go  regular,  and  on  certain  days. 
They  ain't.  By  the  time  the  sheriff  gets  out  his  posse 
they've  skedaddled,  and  the  leader,  like  as  not,  is  takin' 
his  quiet  cocktail  at  the  Bank  Exchange,  or  mebbe  losin' 
Jiis  earnings  to  the  sheriff  over  draw  poker,  in  Sacra 
mento.  You  see  you  can't  prove  anything  agin  them 
unless  you  take  them  'on  the  fly.'  It  may  be  a  part 
of  Joaquim  Murietta's  band,  though  I  wouldn't  swear 
to  it." 

"The  leader  might  have  been  Gentleman  George,  from 
up-country,"  interposed  a  passenger.  "He  seemed  to 
throw  in  a  few  fancy  touches,  particlerly  in  that  'Good 
night.'  Sorter  chucked  a  little  sentiment  in  it.  Didn't 
seem  to  be  the  same  thing  ez,  'Git,  yer  d — d  suckers,'  on 
the  other  line." 

"Whoever  he  was,  he  knew  the  road  and  the  men  who 
travelled  on  it.  Like  ez  not,  he  went  over  the  line  beside 
the  driver  on  the  box  on  the  down  trip,  and  took  stock  of 
everything.  He  even  knew  I  had  those  greenbacks; 
though  they  were  handed  to  me  in  the  bank  at  Sacra 
mento.  He  must  have  been  hanging'  round  there." 

For  some  moments  Hale  remained  silent.  He  was  a 
civic-bred  man,  with  an  intense  love  of  law  and  order; 
the  kind  of  man  who  is  the  first  to  take  that  law  and 
order  into  his  own  hands  when  he  does  not  find  it  existing 
to  please  him.  He  had  a  Bostonian's  respect  for  re 
spectability,  tradition,  and  propriety,  but  was  willing  to 
*ace  irregularity  and  impropriety  to  create  order  else 
where.  He  was  fond  of  Nature  with  these  limitations, 
never  quite  trusting  her  unguided  instincts,  and  finding 
her  as  an  instructress  greatly  inferior  to  Harvard  Uni 
versity,  though  possibly  not  to  Cornell.  With  dauntless 
enterprise  and  energy  he  had  built  and  stocked  a  charming 
cottage  farm  in  a  nook  in  the  Sierras,  whence  he  opposed, 
like  the  lesser  Englishman  that  he  was,  his  own  tastes  to 
those  of  the  alien  West.  In  the  present  instance  he  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  him  not  only  to  assert  his  principles, 
but  to  act  upon  them  with  his  usual  energy.  How  far  he 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  381 

was  impelled  by  the  half-contemptuous  passiveness  of  his 
companions  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 

"What  is  to  prevent  the  pursuit  of  them  at  once?"  he 
asked  suddenly.  "We  are  a  few  miles  from  the  station, 
where  horses  can  be  procured." 

"Who's  to  do  it?"  replied  the  other  lazily.  "The  stage 
company  will  lodge  the  complaint  with  the  authorities, 
but  it  will  take  two  days  to  get  the  county  officers  out, 
and  it's  nobody  else's  funeral." 

"I  will  go  for  one,"  said  Hale  quietly.  "I  have  a  horse 
waiting  for  me  at  the  station,  and  can  start  at  once." 

There  was  an  instant  of  silence.  The  stage-coach  had 
left  the  obscurity  of  the  forest,  and  by  the  stronger  light 
Hale  could  perceive  that  his  companion  was  examining 
him  with  two  colorless,  lazy  eyes.  Presently  he  said, 
meeting  Hale's  clear  glance,  but  rather  as  if  yielding  to  a 
careless  reflection, — 

"It  might  be  done  with  four  men.  We  oughter  raise 
one  man  at  the  station."  He  paused.  "I  don't  know  ez 
I'd  mind  taking  a  hand  myself,"  he  added,  stretching  out 
his  legs  with  a  slight  yawn. 

"Ye  can  count  me  in,  if  you're  goin',  Kernel.  I  reckon 
I'm  talkin'  to  Kernel  Clinch,"  said  the  passenger  beside 
Hale  with  sudden  alacrity.  "I'm  Rawlins,  of  Frisco. 
Heerd  of  ye  afore,  Kernel,  and  kinder  spotted  you  jist  now 
from  your  talk." 

To  Hale's  surprise  the  two  men,  after  awkwardly  and 
perfunctorily  grasping  each  other's  hand,  entered  at  once 
into  a  languid  conversation  on  the  recent  election  at 
Fresno,  without  the  slightest  further  reference  to  the 
pursuit  of  the  robbers.  It  was  not  until  the  remaining 
and  undenominated  passenger  turned  to  Hale,  and,  re 
gretting  that  he  had  immediate  business  at  the  Summit, 
offered  to  accompany  the  party  if  they  would  wait  a  couple 
of  hours,  that  Colonel  Clinch  briefly  returned  to  the 
subject. 

"Four  men  will  do,  and  ez  we'll  hev  to  take  horses  from 
the  station  we'll  hev  to  take  the  fourth  man  from  there." 

With  these  words  he  resumed  his  uninteresting  con 
versation  with  the  equally  uninterested  Rawlins,  and  the 


382  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

undenominated  passenger  subsided  into  an  admiring  and 
dreamy  contemplation  of  them  both.  With  all  his 
principle  and  really  high-minded  purpose,  Hale  could  not 
help  feeling  constrained  and  annoyed  at  the  sudden  sub 
ordinate  and  auxiliary  position  to  which  he,  the  projector 
of  the  enterprise,  had  been  reduced.  It  was  true  that  he 
had  never  offered  himself  as  their  leader;  it  was  true 
that  the  principle  he  wished  to  uphold  and  the  effect  he 
sought  to  obtain  would  be  equally  demonstrated  under 
another;  it  was  true  that  the  execution  of  his  own  con 
ception  gravitated  by  some  occult  impulse  to  the  man  who 
had  not  sought  it,  and  whom  he  had  always  regarded  as 
an  incapable.  But  all  .this  was  so  unlike  precedent  or 
tradition  that,  after  the  fashion  of  conservative  men,  he 
was  suspicious  of  it,  and  only  that  his  honor  was  now 
involved  he  would  have  withdrawn  from  the  enterprise. 
There  was  still  a  chance  of  reasserting  himself  at  the 
station,  where  he  was  known,  and  where  some  authority 
might  be  deputed  to  him. 

But  even  this  prospect  failed.  The  station,  half  hotel 
and  half  stable,  contained  only  the  landlord,  who  was 
also  express  agent,  and  the  new  volunteer  who  Clinch 
had  suggested  would  be  found  among  the  stable-men. 
The  nearest  justice  of  the  peace  was  ten  miles  away, 
and  Hale  had  to  abandon  even  his  hope  of  being  sworn 
in  'as  a  deputy  constable.  This  introduction  of  a  common 
and  illiterate  ostler  into  the  party  on  equal  terms  with 
himself  did  not  add  to  his  satisfaction,  and  a  remark 
from  Rawlins  seemed  to  complete  his  embarrassment. 

"Ye  had  a  mighty  narrer  escape  down  there  just  now," 
said  that  gentleman  confidentially,  as  Hale  buckled  his 
saddle  girths. 

"I  thought,  as  we  were  not  supposed  to  defend  our 
selves,  there  was  no  danger,"  said  Hale  scornfully. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  them  road  agents.    But  him." 

"Who?" 

"Kernel  Clinch.  You  jist  ez  good  as  allowed  he 
hadn't  any  grit." 

"Whatever  I  said,  I  suppose  I  am  responsible  for  it," 
answered  Hale  haughtily. 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  383 

"That's  what  gits  me,"  was  the  imperturbable  reply. 
"He's  the  best  shot  in  Southern  California,  and  hez  let 
daylight  through  a  dozen  chaps  afore  now  for  half  what 
you  said." 

"Indeed !" 

"Howsummever,"  continued  Rawlins  philosophically, 
"ez  he's  concluded  to  go  with  ye  instead  of  for  ye,  you're 
likely  to  hev  your  ideas  on  this  matter  carried  out  up  to 
the  handle.  He'll  make  short  work  of  it,  you  bet.  Ef, 
ez  I  suspect,  the  leader  is  an  airy  young  feller  from 
Frisco,  who  hez  took  to  the  road  lately,  Clinch  hez  got 
a  personal  grudge  agin  him  from  a  quarrel  over  draw 
poker." 

This  was  the  last  blow  to  Hale's  ideal  crusade.  Here 
he  was — an  honest,  respectable  citizen — engaged  as 
simple  accessory  to  a  lawless  vendetta  originating  at  a 
gambling  table !  When  the  first  shock  was  over  that 
grim  philosophy  which  is  the  reaction  of  all  imaginative 
and  sensitive  natures  came  to  his  aid.  He  felt  better; 
oddly  enough  he  began  to  be  conscious  that  he  was  think 
ing  and  acting  like  his  companions.  With  this  feeling 
a  vague  sympathy,  before  absent,  faintly  showed  itself 
in  their  actions.  The  Sharpe's  rifle  put  into  his  hands 
by  the  stable-man  was  accompanied  by  a  familiar  word 
of  suggestion  as  to  an  equal,  which  he  was  ashamed  to 
find  flattered  him.  He  was  able  to  continue  the  conversa 
tion  with  Rawlins  more  coolly. 

"Then  you  suspect  who  is  the  leader?" 

"Only  on  giniral  principles.  There  was  a  finer  touch, 
so  to  speak,  in  this  yer  robbery  that  wasn't  in  the  old- 
fashioned  style.  Down  in  my  country  they  hed  crude 
ideas  about  them  things — used  to  strip  the  passengers  of 
everything,  includin'  their  clothes.  They  say  that  at  the 
station  hotels,  when  the  coach  came  in,  the  folks  used 
to  stand  round  with  blankets  to  wrap  up  the  passengers 
so  ez  not  to  skeer  the  wimen.  Thar's  a  story  that  the 
driver  and  express  manager  drove  up  one  day  with  only 
a  copy  of  the  Alty  Calif orny  wrapped  around  'em ;  but 
thin,"  added  Rawlins  grimly,  "there  was  folks  ez  said  the 
hull  story  was  only  an  advertisement  got  up  for  the  Alty." 


384  SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S 

"Time's  up." 

"Are  you  ready,  gentlemen?"  said  Colonel  Clinch. 

Hale  started.  He  had  forgotten  his  wife  and  family  at 
Eagle's  Court,  ten  miles  away.  They  would  be  alarmed 
at  his  absence,  would  perhaps  hear  some  exaggerated 
version  of  the  stage  coach  robbery,  and  fear  the  worst. 

"Is  there  any  way  I  could  send  a  line  to  Eagle's 
Court  before  daybreak?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

The  station  was  already  drained  of  its  spare  men  and 
horses.  The  undenominated  passenger  stepped  forward 
and  offered  to  take  it  himself  when  his  business,  which 
he  would  despatch  as  quickly  as  possible,  was  concluded. 

"That  ain't  a  bad  idea,"  said  Clinch  reflectively,  "for 
ef  yer  hurry  you'll  head  'em  off  in  case  they  scent  us, 
and  try  to  double  back  on  the  North  Ridge.  They'll 
fight  shy  of  the  trail  if  they  see  anybody  on  it,  and  one 
man's  as  good  as  a  dozen." 

Hale  could  not  help  thinking  that  he  might  have  been 
that  one  man,  and  had  his  opportunity  for  independent 
action  but  for  his  rash  proposal,  but  it  was  too  late  to 
withdraw  now.  He  hastily  scribbled  a  few  lines  to  his 
wife  on  a  sheet  of  the  station  paper,  handed  it  to  the  man, 
and  took  his  place  in  the  little  cavalcade  as  it  filed  silently 
down  the  road. 

They  had  ridden  in  silence  for  nearly  an  hour,  and 
had  passed  the  scene  of  the  robbery  by  a  higher  track. 
Morning  had  long  ago  advanced  its  colors  on  the  cold 
white  peaks  to  their  right,  and  was  taking  possession  of 
the  spur  where  they  rode. 

"It  looks  like  snow,"  said  Rawlins  quietly. 

Hale  turned  towards  him  in  astonishment.  Nothing  on 
earth  or  sky  looked  less  likely.  It  had  been  cold,  but 
that  might  have  been  only  a  current  from  the  frozen 
peaks  beyond,  reaching  the  lower  valley.  The  ridge  on 
which  they  had  halted  was  still  thick  with  yellowish-green 
summer  foliage,  mingled  with  the  darker  evergreen  of 
pine  and  fir.  Oven-like  canons  in  the  long  flanks  of  the 
mountain  seemed  still  to  glow  with  the  heat  of  yester 
day's  noon;  the  breathless  air  yet  trembled  and  quivered 
over  stifling  gorges  and  passes  in  the  granite  rocks, 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  385 

while  far  at  their  feet  sixty  miles  of  perpetual  summer 
stretched  away  over  the  winding  American  River,  now 
and  then  lost  in  a  gossamer  haze.  It  was  scarcely  ripe 
October  where  they  stood ;  they  could  see  the  plenitude 
of  August  still  lingering  in  the  valleys. 

"I've  seen  Thomson's  Pass  choked  up  with  fifteen  feet 
o'  snow  earlier  than  this,"  said  Rawlins,  answering  Hale's 
gaze;  "and  last  September  the  passengers  sledded  over 
the  road  we  came  last  night,  and  all  the  time  Thomson, 
a  mile  lower  down  over  the  ridge  in  the  hollow,  smoking 
his  pipes  under  roses  in  his  piazzy !  Mountains  is  mighty 
uncertain;  they  make  their  own  weather  ez  they  want 
it.  I  reckon  you  ain't  wintered  here  yet." 

Hale  was  obliged  to  admit  that  he  had  only  taken 
Eagle's  Court  in  the  early  spring. 

"Oh,  you're  all  right  at  Eagle's — when  you're  there ! 

But  it's  like  Thomson's — it's  the  gettin'  there  that 

Hallo!  What's  that?" 

A  shot,  distant  but  distinct,  had  rung  through  the  keen 
air.  It  was  followed  by  another  so  alike  as  to  seem  an 
echo. 

"That's  over  yon,  on  the  North  Ridge,"  said  the  ostler, 
"about  two  miles  as  the  crow  flies  and  five  by  the  trail. 
Somebody's  shootin'  b'ar." 

"Not  with  a  shot  gun,"  said  Clinch,  quickly  wheeling 
his  horse  with  a  gesture  that  electrified  them.  "It's  them, 
and  the've  doubled  on  us !  To  the  North  Ridge,  gentle 
men,  and  ride  all  you  know!" 

It  needed  no  second  challenge  to  completely  transform 
that  quiet  cavalcade.  The  wild  man-hunting  instinct, 
inseparable  to  most  humanity,  rose  at  their  leader's  look 
and  word.  With  an  incoherent  and  unintelligible  cry, 
giving  voice  to  the  chase  like  the  commonest  hound  of 
their  fields,  the  order-loving  Hale  and  the  philosophical 
Rawlins  wheeled  with  the  others,  and  in  another  instant 
the  little  band  swept  out  of  sight  in  the  forest. 

An  immense  and  immeasurable  quiet  succeeded.  The 
sunlight  glistened  silently  on  cliff  and  scar,  the  vast 
distance  below  seemed  to  stretch  out  and  broaden  into 
repose.  It  might  have  been  fancy,  but  over  the  sharp 

13  v-  2 


386  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

line  of  the  North  Ridge  a  light  smoke  lifted  as  of  an 
escaping  soul. 

CHAPTER   II 

EAGLE'S  COURT,  one  of  the  highest  canons  of  the 
Sierras,  was  in  reality  a  plateau  of  table-land,  embayed 
like  a  green  lake  in  a  semi-circular  sweep  of  granite, 
that,  lifting  itself  three  thousand  feet  higher,  became  a 
foundation  for  the  eternal  snows.  The  mountain  genii 
of  space  and  atmosphere  jealously  guarded  its  seclusion 
and  surrounded  it  with  illusions;  it  never  looked  to  be 
exactly  what  it  was:  the  traveller  who  saw  it  from  the 
North  Ridge  apparently  at  his  feet  in  descending  found 
himself  separated  from  it  by  a  mile-long  abyss  and  a 
rushing  river;  those  who  sought  it  by  a  seeming  direct 
trail  at  the  end  of  an  hour  lost  sight  of  it  completely, 
or,  abandoning  the  quest  and  retracing  their  steps,  sud 
denly  came  upon  the  gap  through  which  it  was  entered. 
That  which  from  the  Ridge  appeared  to  be  a  copse  of 
bushes  beside  the  tiny  dwelling  were  trees  three  hundred 
feet  high;  the  cultivated  lawn  before  it,  which  might 
have  been  covered  by  the  traveller's  handkerchief,  was  a 
field  of  a  thousand  acres. 

The  house  itself  was  a  long,  low,  irregular  structure, 
chiefly  of  roof  and  veranda,  picturesquely  upheld  by 
rustic  pillars  of  pine,  with  the  bark  still  adhering,  and 
covered  with  vines  and  trailing  roses.  Yet  it  was  evident 
that  the  coolness  produced  by  this  vast  extent  of  cover 
was  more  than  the  architect,  who  had  planned  it  under 
the  influence  of  a  staring  and  bewildering  sky,  had  trust 
fully  conceived,  for  it  had  to  be  mitigated  by  blazing  fires 
in  open  hearths  when  the  thermometer  marked  a  hundred 
degrees  in  the  field  beyond.  The  dry,  restless  wind  that 
continually  rocked  the  tall  masts  of  the  pines  with  a 
sound  like  the  distant  sea,  while  it  stimulated  out-door 
physical  exertion  and  defied  fatigue,  left  the  sedentary 
dwellers  in  these  altitudes  chilled  in  the  shade  they 
courted,  or  scorched  them  with  heat  when  they  ven 
tured  to  bask  supinely  in  the  sun.  White  muslin  curtains 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  387 

at  the  French  windows,  and  rugs,  skins,  and  heavy  furs 
dispersed  in  the  interior,  with  certain  other  charming  but 
incongruous  details  of  furniture,  marked  the  inconsis 
tencies  of  the  climate. 

There  was  a  coquettish  indication  of  this  in  the  cos 
tume  of  Miss  Kate  Scott  as  she  stepped  out  on  the 
veranda  that  morning.  A  man's  broad-brimmed  Panama 
hat,  partly  unsexed  by  a  twisted  gayly-colored  scarf,  but 
retaining  enough  character  to  give  piquancy  to  the  pretty 
curves  of  the  face  beneath,  protected  her  from  the  sun; 
a  red  flannel  shirt — another  spoil  from  the  enemy — and  a 
thick  jacket  shielded  her  from  the  austerities  of  the  morn 
ing  breeze.  But  the  next  inconsistency  was  peculiarly 
her  own.  Miss  Kate  always  wore  the  freshest  and  light 
est  of  white  cambric  skirts,  without  the  least  reference 
to  the  temperature.  To  the  practical  sanatory  remon 
strances  of  her  brother-in-law,  and  to  the  conventional 
criticism  of  her  sister,  she  opposed  the  same  defence: 
"How  else  is  one  to  tell  when  it  is  summer  in  this  ridicu 
lous  climate?  And  then,  woollen  is  stuffy,  color  draws 
the  sun,  and  one  at  least  knows  when  one  is  clean  or 
dirty."  Artistically  the  result  was  far  from  unsatisfactory. 
It  was  a  pretty  figure  under  the  sombre  pines,  against  the 
gray  granite  and  the  steely  sky,  and  seemed  to  lend  the 
yellowing  fields  from  which  the  flowers  had  already  fled 
a  floral  relief  of  color.  I  do  not  think  the  few  masculine 
wayfarers  of  that  locality  objected  to  it;  indeed,  some 
had  betrayed  an  indiscreet  admiration,  and  had  curiously 
followed  the  invitation  of  Miss  Kate's  warmly-colored 
figure  until  they  had  encountered  the  invincible  indiffer 
ence  of  Miss  Kate's  cold  gray  eyes.  With  these  mani 
festations  her  brother-in-law  did  not  concern  himself;  he 
had  perfect  confidence  in  her  unqualified  disinterest  in 
the  neighboring  humanity,  and  permitted  her  to  wander 
in  her  solitary  picturesqueness,  or  accompanied  her  when 
she  rode  in  her  dark  green  habit,  with  equal  freedom 
from  anxiety. 

For  Miss  Scott,  although  only  twenty,  had  already 
subjected  most  of  her  maidenly  illusions  to  mature  critical 
analyses.  She  had  voluntarily  accompanied  her  sister 


388  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

and  mother  to  California,  in  the  earnest  hope  that  nature 
contained  something  worth  saying  to  her,  and  was  dis 
appointed  to  find  she  had  already  discounted  its  value 
in  the  pages  of  books.  She  hoped  to  find  a  vague  free 
dom  in  this  unconventional  life  thus  opened  to  her,  or 
rather  to  show  others  that  she  knew  how  intelligently 
to  appreciate  it,  but  as  yet  she  was  only  able  to  express  it 
in  the  one  detail  of  dress  already  alluded  to.  Some  of 
the  men,  and  nearly  all  the  women,  she  had  met  thus 
far,  she  was  amazed  to  find,  valued  the  conventionalities 
she  believed  she  despised,  and  were  voluntarily  assuming 
the  chains  she  thought  she  had  thrown  off.  Instead  of 
learning  anything  from  them,  these  children  of  nature 
had  bored  her  with  eager  questionings  regarding  the 
civilization  she  had  abandoned,  or  irritated  her  with 
crude  imitations  of  it  for  her  benefit.  "Fancy,"  she  had 
written  to  a  friend  in  Boston,  "my  calling  on  Sue 
Murphy,  who  remembered  the  Donner  tragedy,  and  who 
once  shot  a  grizzly  that  was  prowling  round  her  cabin, 
and  think  of  her  begging  me  to  lend  her  my  sack  for  a 
pattern,  and  wawting  to  know  if  'polonays'  were  still 
worn."  She  remembered  more  bitterly  the  romance  that 
had  tickled  her  earlier  fancy,  told  of  two  college  friends 
of  her  brother-in-law's  who  were  living  the  "perfect 
life"  in  the  mines,  laboring  in  the  ditches  with  a  copy 
of  Homer  in  their  pockets,  and  writing  letters  of  the 
purest  philosophy  under  the  free  air  of  the  pines.  How, 
coming  unexpectedly  on  them  in  their  Arcadia,  the  party 
found  them  unpresentable  through  dirt,  and  thenceforth 
unknowable  through  domestic  complications  that  had 
filled  their  Arcadian  cabin  with  half-breed  children. 

Much  of  this  disillusion  she  had  kept  within  her  own 
heart,  from  a  feeling  of  pride,  or  only  lightly  touched  upon 
it  in  her  relations  with  her  mother  and  sister.  For  Mrs. 
Hale  and  Mrs.  Scott  had  no  idols  to  shatter,  no  enthusiasm 
to  subdue.  Firmly  and  unalterably  conscious  of  their 
own  superiority  to  the  life  they  led  and  the  community 
that  surrounded  them,  they  accepted  their  duties  cheer 
fully,  and  performed  them  conscientiously.  Those  duties 
were  loyalty  to  Hale's  interests  and  a  vague  missionary 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  389 

work  among  the  neighbors,  which,  like  most  missionary 
work,  consisted  rather  in  making  their  own  ideas  under 
stood  than  in  understanding  the  ideas  of  their  audience. 
Old  Mrs.  Scott's  zeal  was  partly  religious,  an  inheritance 
from  her  Puritan  ancestry;  Mrs.  Hale's  was  the  affability 
of  a  gentlewoman  and  the  obligation  of  her  position.  To 
this  was  added  the  slight  languor  of  the  cultivated  Ameri 
can  wife,  whose  health  has  been  affected  by  the  birth  of 
her  first  child,  and  whose  views  of  marriage  and  maternity 
were  slightly  tinged  with  gentle  scepticism.  She  w'as  sin 
cerely  attached  to  her  husband,  "who  dominated  the 
household"  like  the  rest  of  his  "women  folk,"  with  the 
faint  consciousness  of  that  division  of  service  which  ren 
ders  the  position  of  the  sultan  of  a  seraglio  at  once  so 
prominent  and  so  precarious.  The  attitude  of  John  Hale 
in  his  family  circle  was  dominant  because  it  had  never 
been  subjected  to  criticism  or  comparison;  and  perilous 
for  the  same  reason. 

Mrs.  Hale  presently  joined  her  sister  in  the  veranda, 
and,  shading  her  eyes  with  a  narrow  white  hand,  glanced 
on  the  prospect  with  a  polite  interest  and  ladylike 
urbanity.  The  searching  sun,  which,  as  Miss  Kate  once 
intimated,  was  "vulgarity  itself,"  stared  at  her  in  return, 
but  could  not  call  a  blush  to  her  somewhat  sallow  cheek. 
Neither  could  it  detract,  however,  from  the  delicate  pretti- 
ness  of  her  refined  face  with  its  soft  gray  shadows,  or 
the  dark  gentle  eyes,  whose  blue-veined  lids  were  just 
then  wrinkled  into  coquettishly  mischievous  lines  by  the 
strong  light.  She  was  taller  and  thinner  than  Kate,  and 
had  at  times  a  certain  shy,  coy  sinuosity  of  movement 
which  gave  her  a  more  virginal  suggestion  than  her  un 
married  sister.  For  Miss  Kate,  from  her  earliest  youth, 
had  been  distinguished  by  that  matronly  sedateness  of 
voice  and  step,  and  completeness  of  figure,  which  indi 
cates  some  members  of  the  gallinaceous  tribe  from  their 
callow  infancy. 

"I  suppose  John  must  have  stopped  at  the  Summit  on 
some  business,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  "or  he  would  have  been 
here  already.  It's  scarcely  worth  while  waiting  for  him, 
unless  you  choose  to  ride  over  and  meet  him.  You  might 


390  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

change  your  dress,"  she  continued,  looking  doubtfully  at 
Kate's  costume.  "Put  on  your  riding-habit,  and  take 
Manuel  with  you." 

"And  take  the  only  man  we  have,  and  leave  you  alone  ?" 
returned  Kate  slowly.  "No !" 

"There  are  the  Chinese  field  hands,"  said  Mrs.  Hale; 
"you  must  correct  your  ideas,  and  really  allow  them  some 
humanity,  Kate.  John  says  they  have  a  very  good  com 
pulsory  school  system  in  their  own  country,  and  can  read 
and  write." 

"That  would  be  of  little  use  to  you  here  alone  if — if — " 
Kate  hesitated. 

"If  what?"  said  Mrs.  Hale  smiling.  "Are  you  thinking 
of  Manuel's  dreadful  story  of  the  grizzly  tracks  across 
the  fields  this  morning?  I  promise  you  that  neither  I, 
nor  mother,  nor  Minnie  shall  stir  out  of  the  house  until 
you  return,  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  said  Kate ;  "though  I  don't 
believe  the  beating  of  a  gong  and  the  using  of  strong 
language  is  the  best  way  to  frighten  a  grizzly  from  the 
house.  Besides,  the  Chinese  are  going  down  the  river 
to-day  to  a  funeral,  or  a  wedding,  or  a  feast  of  stolen 
chickens — they're  all  the  same — and  won't  be  here." 

"Then  take  Manuel,"  repeated  Mrs.  Hale.  "We  have 
the  Chinese  servants  and  Indian  Molly  in  the  house  to 
protect  us  from  Heaven  knows  what !  I  have  the  great 
est  confidence  in  Chy-Lee  as  a  warrior,  and  in  Chinese 
warfare  generally.  One  has  only  to  hear  him  pipe  in 
time  of  peace  to  imagine  what  a  terror  he  might  become 
in  war  time.  Indeed,  anything  more  deadly  and  soul- 
harrowing  than  that  love  song  he  sang  for  us  last  night  I 
cannot  conceive.  But  really,  Kate,  I  am  not  afraid  to 
stay  alone.  You  know  what  John  says :  we  ought  to  be 
always  prepared  for  anything  that  might  happen." 

"My  dear  Josie,"  returned  Kate,  putting  her  arm  around 
her  sister's  waist,  "I  am  perfectly  convinced  that  if  three- 
fingered  Jack,  or  two-toed  Bill,  or  even  Joaquim  Murietta 
himself,  should  step,  red-handed,  on  that  veranda,  you 
would  gently  invite  him  to  take  a  cup  of  tea,  inquire  about 
the  state  of  the  road,  and  refrain  delicately  from  any 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  391 

allusions  to  the  sheriff.  But  I  shan't  take  Manuel  from 
you.  I  really  cannot  undertake  to  look  after  his  morals 
at  the  station,  and  keep  him  from  drinking  aguardiente 
with  suspicious  characters  at  the  bar.  It  is  true  he  'kisses 
my  hand'  in  his  speech,  even  when  it  is  thickest,  and 
offers  his  back  to  me  for  a  horse-block,  but  I  think  I 
prefer  the  sober  and  honest  familiarity  of  even  that  Pike 
County  landlord  who  is  satisfied  to  say,  'Jump,  girl,  and 
I'll  ketch  ye!'" 

"I  hope  you  didn't  change  your  manner  to  either  of 
them  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  with  a  faint  sigh.  "John 
wants  to  be  good  friends  with  them,  and  they  are  behaving 
quite  decently  lately,  considering  that  they  can't  speak 
a  grammatical  sentence  nor  know  the  use  of  a  fork." 

"And  now  the  man  puts  on  gloves  and  a  tall  hat  to 
come  here  on  Sundays,  and  the  woman  won't  call  until 
you've  called  first,"  retorted  Kate;  "perhaps  you  call  that 
improvement.  The  fact  is,  Josephine,"  continued  the 
young  girl,  folding  her  arms  demurely,  "we  might  as  well 
admit  it  at  once — these  people  don't  like  us." 

"That's  impossible !"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  with  sublime  sim 
plicity.  "You  don't  like  them,  you  mean." 

"I  like  them  better  than  you  do,  Josie,  and  that's  the 
reason  why  /  feel  it  and  you  don't."  She  checked  herself, 
and  after  a  pause  resumed  in  a  lighter  tone :  "No ;  I 
sha'n't  go  to  the  station ;  I'll  commune  with  nature  to-day, 
and  won't  'take  any  humanity  in  mine,  thank  you,'  as  Bill 
the  driver  says.  Adios." 

"I  wish  Kate  would  not  use  that  dreadful  slang,  even  in 
jest,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  in  her  rocking-chair  at  the  French 
window,  when  Josephine  reentered  the  parlor  as  her  sister 
walked  briskly  away.  "I  am  afraid  she  is  being  infected 
by  the  people  at  the  station.  She  ought  to  have  a 
change." 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Josephine,  looking  abstract 
edly  at  her  mother,  "that  I  would  try  to  get  John  to  take 
her  to  San  Francisco  this  winter.  The  Careys  are  ex 
pected,  you  know;  she  might  visit  them." 

"I'm  afraid,  if  she  stays  here  much  longer,  she  won't 
care  to  see  them  at  all.  She  seems  to  care  for  nothing 


392  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

now  that  she  ever  liked  before,"  returned  the  old  lady 
ominously. 

Meantime  the  subject  of  these  criticisms  was  carrying 
away  her  own  reflections  tightly  buttoned  up  in  her  short 
jacket.  She  had  driven  back  her  dog  Spot — another  one 
of  her  disillusions,  who,  giving  way  to  his  lower  nature, 
had  once  killed  a  sheep — as  she  did  not  wish  her  Jacques- 
like  contemplation  of  any  wounded  deer  to  be  incon 
sistently  interrupted  by  a  fresh  outrage  from  her  com 
panion.  The  air  was  really  very  chilly,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  her  mountain  experience  the  direct  rays  of  the 
sun  seemed  to  be  shorn  of  their  power.  This  compelled 
her  to  walk  more  briskly  than  she  was  conscious  of,  for 
in  less  than  an  hour  she  came  suddenly  and  breathlessly 
upon  the  mouth  of  the  canon,  or  natural  gateway  to 
Eagle's  Court. 

To  her  always  a  profound  spectacle  of  mountain  mag 
nificence,  it  seemed  to-day  almost  terrible  in  its  cold, 
strong  grandeur.  The  narrowing  pass  was  choked  for 
a  moment  between  two  gigantic  buttresses  of  granite,  ap 
proaching  each  other  so  closely  at  their  towering  summits 
that  trees  growing  in  opposite  clefts  of  the  rock  inter 
mingled  their  branches  and  pointed  the  soaring  Gothic 
arch  of  a  stupendous  gateway.  She  raised  her  eyes  with 
a  quickly  beating  heart.  She  knew  that  the  interlacing 
trees  above  her  were  as  large  as  -those  she  had  just 
quitted;  she  knew  also  that  the  point  where  they  met  was 
only  half-way  up  the  cliff,  for  she  had  once  gazed  down 
upon  them,  dwindled  to  shrubs  from  the  airy  summit; 
she  knew  that  their  shaken  cones  fell  a  thousand  feet 
perpendicularly,  or  bounded  like  shot  from  the  scarred 
walls  they  bombarded.  She  remembered  that  one  of  these 
pines,  dislodged  from  its  high  foundations,  had  once 
dropped  like  a  portcullis  in  the  archway,  blocking  the  pass, 
and  was  only  carried  afterwards  by  assault  of  steel  and 
fire.  Bending  her  head  mechanically,  she  ran  swiftly 
through  the  shadowy  passage,  and  halted  only  at  the  be 
ginning  of  the  ascent  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  here  that  the  actual  position  of  the  plateau,  so 
indefinite  of  approach,  began  to  be  realized.  It  now  ap- 


SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S  393 

peared  an  independent  elevation,  surrounded  on  three 
sides  by  gorges  and  watercourses,  so  narrow  as  to  be 
overlooked  from  the  principal  mountain  range,  with 
which  it  was  connected  by  a  long  canon  that  led  to  the 
ridge.  At  the  outlet  of  this  canon — in  bygone  ages  a 
mighty  river — it  had  the  appearance  of  having  been  slowly 
raised  by  the  diluvium  of  that  river,  and  the  debris  washed 
down  from  above — a  suggestion  repeated  in  miniature  by 
the  artificial  plateaus  of  excavated  soil  raised  before  the 
mouths  of  mining  tunnels  in  the  lower  flanks  of  the  moun 
tain.  It  was  the  realization  of  a  fact — often  forgotten 
by  the  dwellers  in  Eagle's  Court — that  the  valley  below 
them,  which  was  their  connecting  link  with  the  surround 
ing  world,  was  only  reached  by  ascending  the  mountain, 
and  the  nearest  road  was  over  the  higher  mountain  ridge. 
Never  before  had  this  impressed  itself  so  strongly  upon 
the  young  girl  as  when  she  turned  that  morning  to  look 
upon  the  plateau  below  her.  It  seemed  to  illustrate  the 
conviction  that  had  been  slowly  shaping  itself  out  of  her 
reflections  on  the  conversation  of  that  morning.  It  was 
possible  that  the  perfect  understanding  of  a  higher  life 
was  only  reached  from  a  height  still  greater,  and  that  to 
those  half-way  up  the  mountain  the  summit  was  never  as 
truthfully  revealed  as  to  the  humbler  dwellers  in  the 
valley. 

I  do  not  know  that  these  profound  truths  prevented 
her  from  gathering  some  quaint  ferns  and  berries,  or 
from  keeping  her  calm  gray  eyes  open  to  certain  practical 
changes  that  were  taking  place  around  her.  She  had 
noticed  a  singular  thickening  in  the  atmosphere  that 
seemed  to  prevent  the  passage  of  the  sun's  rays,  yet  with 
out  diminishing  the  transparent  quality  of  the  air.  The 
distant  snow-peaks  were  as  plainly  seen,  though  they  ap 
peared  as  if  in  moonlight.  This  seemed  due  to  no  cloud 
or  mist,  but  rather  to  a  fading  of  the  sun  itself.  The 
occasional  flurry  of  wings  overhead,  the  whirring  of 
larger  birds  in  the  cover,  and  a  frequent  rustling  in  the 
undergrowth,  as  of  the  passage  of  some  stealthy  animal, 
began  equally  to  attract  her  attention.  It  was  so  different 
from  the  habitual  silence  of  these  sedate  solitudes.  Kate 


394  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

had  no  vague  fear  of  wild  beasts;  she  had  been  long 
enough  a  mountaineer  to  understand  the  general  immunity 
enjoyed  by  the  unmolesting  wayfarer,  and  kept  her  way 
undismayed.  She  was  descending  an  abrupt  trail  when 
she  was  stopped  by  a  sudden  crash  in  the  bushes.  It 
seemed  to  come  from  the  opposite  incline,  directly  in  a 
line  with  her,  and  apparently  on  the  very  trail  that  she 
was  pursuing.  The  crash  was  then  repeated  again  and 
again  lower  down,  as  of  a  descending  body.  Expecting 
the  apparition  of  some  fallen  tree,  or  detached  boulder 
bursting  through  the  thicket,  in  its  way  to  the  bottom  of 
the  gulch,  she  waited.  The  foliage  was  suddenly  brushed 
aside,  and  a  large  grizzly  bear  half  rolled,  half  waddled, 
into  the  trail  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hill.  A  few 
moments  more  would  have  brought  them  face  to  face  at 
the  foot  of  the  gulch ;  when  she  stopped  there  were  not 
fifty  yards  between  them. 

She  did  not  scream ;  she  did  not  faint ;  she  was  not  even 
frightened.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  anything  terrifying 
in  this  huge,  stupid  beast,  who,  arrested  by  the  rustle  of  a 
stone  displaced  by  her  descending  feet,  rose  slowly  on 
his  haunches  and  gazed  at  her  with  small,  wondering  eyes. 
Nor  did  it  seem  strange  to  her,  seeing  that  he  was  in 
her  way,  to  pick  up  a  stone,  throw  it  in  his  direction,  and 
say  simply,  "Sho !  get  away !"  as  she  would  have  done  to 
an  intruding  cow.  Nor  did  it  seem  odd  that  he  should 
actually  "go  away"  as  he  did,  scrambling  back  into  the 
bushes  again,  and  disappearing  like  some  grotesque  figure 
in  a  transformation  scene.  It  was  not  until  after  he  had 
gone  that  she  was  taken  with  a  slight  nervousness  and 
giddiness,  and  retraced  her  steps  somewhat  hurriedly, 
shying  a  little  at  every  rustle  in  the  thicket.  By  the 
time  she  had  reached  the  great  gateway  she  was  doubtful 
whether  to  be  pleased  or  frightened  at  the  incident,  but 
she  concluded  to  keep  it  to  herself. 

It  was  still  intensely  cold.  The  light  of  the  midday 
sun  had  decreased  still  more,  and  on  reaching  the  plateau 
again  she  saw  that  a  dark  cloud,  not  unlike  the  precursor 
of  a  thunder-storm,  was  brooding  over  the  snowy  peaks 
beyond.  In  spite  of  the  cold  this  singular  suggestion  of 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  395 

summer  phenomena  was  still  borne  out  by  the  distant 
smiling  valley,  and  even  in  the  soft  grasses  at  her  feet. 
It  seemed  to  her  the  crowning  inconsistency  of  the  climate, 
and  with  a  half-serious,  half-playful  protest  on  her  lips 
she  hurried  forward  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER   III 

To  Kate's  surprise,  the  lower  part  of  the  house  was 
deserted,  but  there  was  an  unusual  activity  on  the  floor 
above,  and  the  sound  of  heavy  steps.  There  were  alien 
marks  of  dusty  feet  on  the  scrupulously  clean  passage,  and 
on  the  first  step  of  the  stairs  a  spot  of  blood.  With  a 
sudden  genuine  alarm  that  drove  her  previous  adventure 
from  her  mind,  she  impatiently  called  her  sister's  name. 
There  was  a  hasty  yet  subdued  rustle  of  skirts  on  the 
staircase,  and  Mrs.  Hale,  with  her  finger  on  her  lip, 
swept  Kate  unceremoniously  into  the  sitting-room,  closed 
the  door,  and  leaned  back  against  it,  with  a  faint  smile. 
She  had  a  crumpled  paper  in  her  hand. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  but  read  that  first,"  she  said,  hand 
ing  her  sister  the  paper.  "It  was  brought  just  now." 

Kate  instantly  recognized  her  brother's  distinct  hand. 
She  read  hurriedly,  "The  coach  was  robbed  last  night; 
nobody  hurt.  I've  lost  nothing  but  a  day's  time,  as  this 
business  will  keep  me  here  until  to-morrow,  when  Manuel 
can  join  me  with  a  fresh  horse.  No  cause  for  alarm. 
As  the  bearer  goes  out  of  his  way  to  bring  you  this, 
see  that  he  wants  for  nothing." 

"Well,"  said  Kate  expectantly. 

"Well,  the  'bearer'  was  fired  upon  by  the  robbers,  who 
were  lurking  on  the  Ridge.  He  was  wounded  in  the  leg. 
Luckily  he  was  picked  up  by  his  friend,  who  was  coming 
to  meet  him,  and  brought  here  as  the  nearest  place. 
He's  up-stairs  in  the  spare  bed  in  the  spare  room,  with 
his  friend,  who  won't  leave  his  side.  He  won't  even 
have  mother  in  the  room.  They've  stopped  the  bleeding 
with  John's  ambulance  things,  and  now,  Kate,  here's 
a  chance  for  you  to  show  the  value  of  your  education 


396  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

in  the  ambulance  class.  The  ball  has  got  to  be  extracted. 
Here's  your  opportunity." 

Kate  looked  at  her  sister  curiously.  There  was  a  faint 
pink  flush  on  her  pale  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  gently 
sparkling.  She  had  never  seen  her  look  so  pretty  before. 

"Why  not  have  sent  Manuel  for  a  doctor  at  once?" 
asked  Kate. 

"The  nearest  doctor  is  fifteen  miles  away,  and  Manuel 
is  nowhere  to  be  found.  Perhaps  he's  gone  to  look  after 
the  stock.  There's  some  talk  of  snow;  imagine  the 
absurdity  of  it !" 

"But  who  are  they?" 

"They  speak  of  themselves  as  'friends,'  as  if  it  were  a 
profession.  The  wounded  one  was  a  passenger,  I  sup 
pose." 

"But  what  are  they  like?"  continued  Kate.  "I  suppose 
they're  like  them  all." 

Mrs.  Hale  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"The  wounded  one,  when  he's  not  fainting  away,  is 
laughing.  The  other  is  a  creature  with  a  moustache,  and 
gloomy  beyond  expression." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them?"  said  Kate. 

"What  should  I  do?  Even  without  John's  letter  I 
could  not  refuse  the  shelter  of  my  house  to  a  wounded 
and  helpless  man.  I  shall  keep  him,  of  course,  until  John 
comes.  Why,  Kate,  I  really  believe  you  are  so  prejudiced 
against  these  people  you'd  like  to  turn  them  out.  But  I 
forget !  It's  because  you  like  them  so  well.  Well,  you 
need  not  fear  to  expose  yourself  to  the  fascinations  of 
the  wounded  Christy  Minstrel — I'm  sure  he's  that — or  to 
the  unspeakable  one,  who  is  shyness  itself,  and  would  not 
dare  to  raise  his  eyes  to  you." 

There  was  a  timid,  hesitating  step  in  the  passage.  It 
paused  before  the  door,  moved  away,  returned,  and  finally 
asserted  its  intentions  in  the  gentlest  of  taps. 

"It's  him;  I'm  sure  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  with  a 
suppressed  smile. 

Kate  threw  open  the  door  smartly,  to  the  extreme  dis 
comfiture  of  a  tall,  dark  figure  that  already  had  slunk 
away  from  it.  For  all  that,  he  was  a  good-looking 


SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S  397 

enough  fellow,  with  a  moustache  as  long  and  almost  as 
flexible  as  a  ringlet.  Kate  could  not  help  noticing  also 
that  his  hand,  which  was  nervously  pulling  the  mous 
tache,  was  white  and  thin. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  stammered,  without  raising  his  eyes, 
"I  was  looking  for — for — the  old  lady.  I — I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  didn't  know  that  you — the  young  ladies — com 
pany — were  here.  I  intended — I  only  wanted  to  say  that 
my  friend — "  He  stopped  at  the  slight  smile  that  passed 
quickly  over  Mrs.  Hale's  mouth,  and  his  pale  face  red 
dened  with  an  angry  flush. 

"I  hope  he  is  not  worse,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  with  more 
than  her  usual  languid  gentleness.  •  "My  mother  is  not 
here  at  present.  Can  I — can  we — this  is  my  sister — do 
as  well?" 

Without  looking  up  he  made  a  constrained  recognition 
of  Kate's  presence,  that  embarrassed  and  curt  as  it  was, 
had  none  of  the  awkwardness  of  rusticity. 

"Thank  you ;  you're  very  kind.  But  my  friend  is  a 
little  stronger,  and  if  you  can  lend  me  an  extra  horse  I'll 
try  to  get  him  on  the  Summit  to-night." 

"But  you  surely  will  not  take  him  away  from  us  so 
soon?"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  with  a  languid  look  of  alarm, 
in  which  Kate,  however,  detected  a  certain  real  feeling. 
"Wait  at  least  until  my  husband  returns  to-morrow." 

"He  won't  be  here  to-morrow,"  said  the  stranger 
hastily.  He  stopped,  and  as  quickly  corrected  himself. 
"That  is,  his  business  is  so  very  uncertain,  my  friend 
says." 

Only  Kate  noticed  the  slip;  but  she  noticed  also  that 
her  sister  was  apparently  unconscious  of  it.  "You  think," 
she  said,  "that  Mr.  Hale  may  be  delayed?" 

He  turned  upon  her  almost  brusquely.  "I  mean  that 
it  is  already  snowing  up  there ;"  he  pointed  through  the 
window  to  the  cloud  Kate  had  noticed;  "if  it  comes  down 
lower  in  the  pass  the  roads  will  be  blocked  up.  That  is 
why  it  would  be  better  for  us  to  try  and  get  on  at  once." 

"But  if  Mr.  Hale  is  likely  to  be  stopped  by  snow,  so 
are  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  playfully;  "and  you  had  better 
let  us  try  to  make  your  friend  comfortable  here  rather 


398  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

than  expose  him  to  that  uncertainty  in  his  weak  condi 
tion.  We  will  do  our  best  for  him.  My  sister  is  dying 
for  an  opportunity  to  show  her  skill  in  surgery,"  she 
continued,  with  an  unexpected  mischievousness  that  only 
added  to  Kate's  surprised  embarrassment.  "Aren't  you, 
Kate?" 

Equivocal  as  the  young  girl  knew  her  silence  appeared, 
she  was  unable  to  utter  the  simplest  polite  evasion.  Some 
unaccountable  impulse  kept  her  constrained  and  speech 
less.  The  stranger  did  not,  however,  wait  for  her  reply, 
but,  casting  a  swift,  hurried  glance  around  the  room, 
said,  "It's  impossible ;  we  must  go.  In  fact,  I've  already 
taken  the  liberty  to  order  the  horses  round.  They  are  at 
the  door  now.  You  may  be  certain,"  he  added,  with 
quick  earnestness,  suddenly  lifting  his  dark  eyes  to  Mrs. 
Hale,  and  as  rapidly  withdrawing  them,  "that  your  horse 
will  be  returned  at  once,  and — and — we  won't  forget 
your  kindness."  He  stopped  and  turned  towards  the  hall. 
"I — I  have  brought  my  friend  down-etairs.  He  wants 
to  thank  you  before  he  goes." 

As  he  remained  standing  in  the  hall  the  two  women 
stepped  to  the  door.  To  their  surprise,  half  reclining  on 
a  cane  sofa  was  the  wounded  man,  and  what  could  be 
seen  of  his  slight  figure  was  wrapped  in  a  dark  scrape. 
His  beardless  face  gave  him  a  quaint  boyishness  quite 
inconsistent  with  the  mature  lines  of  his  temples  and 
forehead.  Pale,  and  in  pain,  as  he  evidently  was,  his  blue 
eyes  twinkled  with  intense  amusement.  Not  only  did  his 
manner  offer  a  marked  contrast  to  the  sombre  uneasiness 
of  his  companion,  but  he  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  per 
fectly  at  his  ease  in  the  group  around  him. 

"It's  rather  rough  making  you  come  out  here  to  see 
me  off,"  he  said,  with  a  not  unmusical  laugh  that  was 
very  infectious,  "but  Ned  there,  who  carried  me  down 
stairs,  wanted  to  tote  me  round  the  house  in  his  arms 
like  a  baby  to  say  ta-ta  to  you  all.  Excuse  my  not  rising, 
but  I  feel  as  uncertain  below  as  a  mermaid,  and  as  out  of 
my  element,"  he  added,  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  his 
friend.  "Ned  concluded  I  must  go  on.  But  I  must  say 
good-by  to  the  old  lady  first.  Ah !  here  she  is." 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  399 

To  Kate's  complete  bewilderment,  not  only  did  the  utter 
familiarity  of  this  speech,  pass  unnoticed  and  unrebuked 
by  her  sister,  but  actually  her  own  mother  advanced 
quickly  with  every  expression  of  lively  sympathy,  and 
with  the  authority  of  her  years  and  an  almost  maternal 
anxiety  endeavored  to  dissuade  the  invalid  from  going. 
"This  is  not  my  house,"  she  said,  looking  at  her  daughter, 
"but  if  it  were  I  should  not  hear  of  your  leaving,  not 
only  to-night,  but  until  you  were  out  of  danger. 
Josephine !  Kate !  What  are  you  thinking  of  to  permit 
it  ?  Well,  then  /  forbid  it— there !" 

Had  they  become  suddenly  insane,  or  were  they  be 
witched  by  this  morose  intruder  and  his  insufferably 
familiar  confidant  ?  The  man  was  wounded,  it  was  true ; 
they  might  have  to  put  him  up  in  common  humanity; 
but  here  was  her  austere  mother,  who  wouldn't  come  in 
the  room  when  Whisky  Dick  called  on  business,  actually 
pressing  both  of  the  invalid's  hands,  while  her  sister, 
who  never  extended  a  finger  to  the  ordinary  visiting 
humanity  of  the  neighborhood,  looked  on  with  evident 
complacency. 

The  wounded  man  suddenly  raised  Mrs.  Scott's  hand 
to  his  lips,  kissed  it  gently,  and,  with  his  smile  quite  van 
ished,  endeavored  to  rise  to  his  feet.  "It's  of  no  use — we 
must  go.  Give  me  your  arm,  Ned.  Quick!  Are  the 
horses  there?" 

"Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Scott  quickly.  "I  forgot  to  say 
the  horse  cannot  be  found  anywhere.  Manuel  must  have 
taken  him  this  morning  to  look  up  the  stock.  But  he 
will  be  back  to-night  certainly,  and  if  to-morrow — " 

The  wounded  man  sank  back  to  a  sitting  position.  "Is 
Manuel  your  man?"  he  asked  grimly. 

"Yes." 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances. 

"Marked  on  his  left  cheek  and  drinks  a  good  deal?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kate,  finding  her  voice.    "Why?" 

The  amused  look  came  back  to  the  man's  eyes.  "That 
kind  of  man  isn't  safe  to  wait  for.  We  must  take  our 
own  horse,  Ned.  Are  you  ready  ?" 

"Yes." 


400  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

The  wounded  man  again  attempted  to  rise.  He  fell 
back,  but  this  time  quite  heavily.  He  had  fainted. 

Involuntarily  and  simultaneously  the  three  women 
rushed  to  his  side.  "He  cannot  go,"  said  Kate  suddenly. 

"He  will  be  better  in  a  moment." 

"But  only  for  a  moment.  Will  nothing  induce  you  to 
change  your  mind?" 

As  if  in  reply  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  brought  a  volley 
of  rain  against  the  window. 

"That  will,"  said  the  stranger  bitterly. 

"The  rain?" 

"A  mile  from  here  it  is  snow;  and  before  we  could 
reach  the  Summit  with  these  horses  the  road  would  be 
impassable." 

He  made  a  slight  gesture  to  himself,  as  if  accepting 
an  inevitable  defeat,  and  turned  to  his  companion,  who 
was  slowly  reviving  under  the  active  ministration  of  the 
two  women.  The  wounded  man  looked  around  with  a 
weak  smile.  "This  is  one  way  of  going  off,"  he  said 
faintly,  "but  I  could  do  this  sort  of  thing  as  well  on  the 
road." 

"You  can  do  nothing  now,"  said  his  friend,  decidedly. 
"Before  we  get  to  the  Gate  the  road  will  be  impassable 
for  our  horses." 

"For  any  horses?"  asked  Kate. 

"For  any  horses.  For  any  man  or  beast  I  might  say. 
Where  we  cannot  get  out,  no  one  can  get  in,"  he  added, 
as  if  answering  her  thoughts.  "I  am  afraid  that  you 
won't  see  your  brother  to-morrow  morning.  But  I'll 
reconnoitre  as  soon  as  I  can  do  so  without  torturing 
him"  he  said,  looking  anxiously  at  the  helpless  man; 
"he's  got  about  his  share  of  pain,  I  reckon,  and  the  first 
thing  is  to  get  him  easier."  It  was  the  longest  speech 
he  had  made  to  her;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  fairly 
looked  her  in  the  face.  His  shy  restlessness  had  suddenly 
given  way  to  dogged  resignation,  less  abstracted,  but 
scarcely  more  flattering  to  his  entertainers.  Lifting  his 
companion  gently  in  his  arms,  as  if  he  had  been  a  child, 
he  reascended  the  staircase,  Mrs.  Scott  and  the  hastily- 
summoned  Molly  following  with  overflowing  solicitude. 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  401 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone  in  the  parlor  Mrs.  Hale 
turned  to  her  sister:  "Only  that  our  guests  seemed  to  be 
as  anxious  to  go  just  now  as  you  were  to  pack  them  off, 
I  should  have  been  shocked  at  your  inhospitality.  What 
has  come  over  you,  Kate  ?  These  are  the  very  people  you 
have  reproached  me  so  often  with  not  being  civil  enough 
to." 

"But  who  are  they?" 

"How  do  I  know?    There  is  your  brother's  letter." 

She  usually  spoke  of  her  husband  as  "John."  This 
slight  shifting  of  relationship  and  responsibility  to  the 
feminine  mind  was  significant.  Kate  was  a  little  fright 
ened  and  remorseful. 

"I  only  meant  you  don't  even  know  their  names." 

"That  wasn't  necessary  for  giving  them  a  bed  and 
bandages.  Do  you  suppose  the  good  Samaritan  ever 
asked  the  wounded  Jew's  name,  and  that  the  Levite  did 
not  excuse  himself  because  the  thieves  had  taken  the 
poor  man's  card-case?  Do  the  directions,  'In  case  of 
accident,'  in  your  ambulance  rules,  read,  'First  lay  the 
sufferer  on  his  back  and  inquire  his  name  and  family 
connections'?  Besides,  you  can  call  one  'Ned'  and  the 
other  'George,'  if  you  like." 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Kate,  irrelevantly. 
"Which  is  George?" 

"George  is  the  wounded  man,"  said  Mrs.  Hale;  "not 
the  one  who  talked  to  you  more  than  he  did  to  any  one 
else.  I  suppose  the  poor  man  was  frightened  and  read 
dismissal  in  your  eyes." 

"I  wish  John  were  here." 

"I  don't  think  we  have  anything  to  fear  in  his  absence 
from  men  whose  only  wish  is  to  get  away  from  us.  If 
it  is  a  question  of  propriety,  my  dear  Kate,  surely  there  is 
the  presence  of  mother  to  prevent  any  scandal — although 
really  her  Own  conduct  with  the  wounded  one  is  not 
above  suspicion,"  she  added,  with  that  novel  mischievous- 
ness  that  seemed  a  return  of  her  lost  girlhood.  "We 
must  try  to  do  the  best  we  can  with  them  and  for  them," 
she  said  decidedly,  "and  meantime'  I'll  see  if  I  can't 
arrange  John's  room  for  them." 


402  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

"John's  room?" 

"Oh,  mother  is  perfectly  satisfied;  indeed,  suggested 
it.  It's  larger  and  will  hold  two  beds,  for  'Ned,'  the 
friend,  must  attend  to  him  at  night.  And,  Kate,  don't 
you  think,  if  you're  not  going  out  again,  you  might 
change  your  costume?  It  does  very  well  while  we  are 
alone — " 

"Well,"  said  Kate  indignantly,  "as  I  am  not  going 
into  his  room — " 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,  if  we  can't  get  a  regular 
doctor.  But  he  is  very  restless,  and  wanders  all  over  the 
house  like  a  timid  and  apologetic  spaniel." 

"Who?" 

"Why  'Ned.'  But  I  must  go  and  look  after  the  patient. 
I  suppose  they've  got  him  safe  in  his  bed  again,"  and  with 
a  nod  to  her  sister  she  tripped  up-stairs. 

Uncomfortable  and  embarrassed,  she  knew  not  why, 
Kate  sought  her  mother.  But  that  good  lady  was  already 
in  attendance  on  the  patient,  and  Kate  hurried  past  that 
baleful  centre  of  attraction  with  a  feeling  of  loneliness 
and  strangeness  she  had  never  experienced  before. 
Entering  her  own  room  she  went  to  the  window — that 
first  and  last  refuge  of  the  troubled  mind — and  gazed  out. 
Turning  her  eyes  in  the  direction  of  her  morning's  walk, 
she  started  back  with  a  sense  of  being  dazzled.  She 
rubbed  first  her  eyes  and  then  the  rain-dimmed  pane.  It 
was  no  illusion !  The  whole  landscape,  so  familiar  to 
her,  was  one  vast  field  of  dead,  colorless  white !  Trees, 
rocks,  even  distance  itself,  had  vanished  in  those  few 
hours.  An  even  shadowless,  motionless  white  sea  filled 
the  horizon.  On  either  side  a  vast  wall  of  snow  seemed 
to  shut  out  the  world  like  a  shroud.  Only  the  green 
plateau  before  her,  with  its  sloping  meadows  and  fringe 
of  pines  and  cottonwood,  lay  alone  like  a  summer  island 
in  this  frozen  sea. 

A  sudden  desire  to  view  this  phenomenon  more  closely, 
and  to  learn  for  herself  the  limits  of  this  new  tethered 
life,  completely  possessed  her,  and,  accustomed  to  act 
upon  her  independent  impulses,  she  seized  a  hooded 
waterproof  cloak,  and  slipped  out  of  the  house  unper- 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  403 

ceived.  The  rain  was  falling  steadily  along  the  descend 
ing  trail  where  she  walked,  but  beyond,  scarcely  a  mile 
across  the  chasm,  the  wintry  distance  began  to  confuse 
her  brain  with  the  inextricable  swarming  of  snow.  Hur 
rying  down  with  feverish  excitement,  she  at  last  came  in 
sight  of  the  arching  granite  portals  of  their  domain. 
But  her  first  glance  through  the  gateway  showed  it 
closed  as  if  with  a  white  portcullis.  Kate  remembered 
that  the  trail  began  to  ascend  beyond  the  arch,  and  knew 
that  what  she  saw  was  only  the  mountain  side  she  had 
partly  climbed  this  morning.  But  the  snow  had  already 
crept  down  its  flank,  and  the  exit  by  trail  was  practically 
closed.  Breathlessly  making  her  way  back  to  the  highest 
part  of  the  plateau — the  cliff  behind  the  house  that  here 
descended  abruptly  to  the  rain-dimmed  valley — she  gazed 
at  the  dizzy  depths  in  vain  for  some  undiscovered  or 
forgotten  trail  along  its  face.  But  a  single  glance  con 
vinced  her  of  its  inaccessibility.  The  gateway  was  indeed 
their  only  outlet  to  the  plain  below.  She  looked  back 
at  the  falling  snow  beyond  until  she  fancied  she  could 
see  in  the  crossing  and  recrossing  lines  the  moving 
meshes  of  a  fateful  web  woven  around  them  by  viewless 
but  inexorable  fingers. 

Half  frightened,  she  was  turning  away,  when  she  per 
ceived,  a  few  paces  distant,  the  figure  of  the  stranger, 
"Ned,"  also  apparently  absorbed  in  the  gloomy  prospect. 
He  was  wrapped  in  the  clinging  folds  of  a  black  serape 
braided  with  silver;  the  broad  flap  of  a  slouch  hat  beaten 
back  by  the  wind  exposed  the  dark,  glistening  curls  on 
his  white  forehead.  He  was  certainly  very  handsome 
and  picturesque,  and  that  apparently  without  effort  or 
consciousness.  Neither  was  there  anything  in  his  cos 
tume  or  appearance  inconsistent  with  his  surroundings, 
or,  even  with  what  Kate  could  judge  were  his  habits  or 
position.  Nevertheless,  she  instantly  decided  that  he  was 
too  handsome  and  too  picturesque,  without  suspecting 
that  her  ideas  of  the  limits  of  masculine  beauty  were 
merely  personal  experience. 

As  he  turned  away  from  the  cliff  they  were  brought 
face  to  face.  "It  doesn't  look  very  encouraging  over 


404  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

there,"  he  said  quietly,  as  if  the  inevitableness  of  the 
situation  had  relieved  him  of  his  previous  shyness  and 
effort ;  "it's  even  worse  than  I  expected.  The  snow  must 
have  begun  there  last  night,  and  it  looks  as  if  it  meant 
to  stay."  He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then,  lifting  his 
eyes  to  her,  said: —  "I  suppose  you  know  what  this 
means  ?" 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  thought  not.  Well !  it  means  that  you  are  abso 
lutely  cut  off  here  from  any  communication  or  intercourse 
with  any  one  outside  of  that  canon.  By  this  time  the 
snow  is  five  feet  deep  over  the  only  trail  by  which  one 
can  pass  in  and  out  of  that  gateway.  I  am  not  alarming 
you,  I  hope,  for  there  is  no  real  physical  danger;  a  place 
like  this  ought  to  be  well  garrisoned,  and  certainly  is 
self-supporting  so  far  as  the  mere  necessities  and  even 
comforts  are  concerned.  You  have  wood,  water,  cattle, 
and  game  at  your  command,  but  for  two  weeks  at  least 
you  are  completely  isolated." 

"For  two  weeks,"  said  Kate,  growing  pale — "and  my 
brother !" 

"He  knows  all  by  this  time,  and  is  probably  as  assured 
as  I  am  of  the  safety  of  his  family." 

"For  two  weeks,"  continued  Kate ;  "impossible !  You 
don't  know  my  brother !  He  will  find  some  way  to  get 
to  us." 

"I  hope  so,"  returned  the  stranger  gravely,  "for  what 
is  possible  for  him  is  possible  for  us." 

"Then  you  are  anxious  to  get  away,"  Kate  could  not 
help  saying. 

"Very." 

The  reply  was  not  discourteous  in  manner,  but  was  so 
far  from  gallant  that  Kate  felt  a  new  and  inconsistent 
resentment.  Before  she  could  say  anything  he  added, 
"And  I  hope  you  will  remember,  whatever  may  happen, 
that  I  did  my  best  to  avoid  staying  here  longer  than  was 
necessary  to  keep  my  friend  from  bleeding  to  death  in 
the  road." 

"Certainly,"  said  Kate;  then  added  awkwardly,  "I  hope 
he'll  be  better  soon."  She  was  silent,  and  then,  quick- 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  405 

ening  her  pace,  said  hurriedly,  "I  must  tell  my  sister 
this  dreadful  news." 

"I  think  she  is  prepared  for  it.  If  there  is  anything  I 
can  do  to  help  you  I  hope  you  will  let  me  know.  Perhaps 
I  may  be  of  some  service.  I  shall  begin  by  exploring  the 
trails  to-morrow,  for  the  best  service  we  can  do  you  pos 
sibly  is  to  take  ourselves  off;  but  I  can  carry  a  gun,  and 
the  woods  are  full  of  game  driven  down  from  the 
mountains.  Let  me  show  you  something  you  may  not 
have  noticed."  He  stopped,  and  pointed  to  a  small  knoll 
of  sheltered  shrubbery  and  granite  on  the  opposite  moun 
tain,  which  still  remained  black  against  the  surrounding 
snow.  It  seemed  to  be  thickly  covered  with  moving 
objects.  "They  are  wild  animals  driven  out  of  the  snow," 
said  the  stranger.  "That  larger  one  is  a  grizzly ;  there  is 
a  panther,  wolves,  wild  cats,  a  fox,  and  some  mountain 
goats." 

"An  ill-assorted  party,"  said  the  young  girl. 

"Ill  luck  makes  them  companions.  They  are  too  fright 
ened  to  hurt  one  another  now." 

"But  they  will  eat  each  other  later  on,"  said  Kate, 
stealing  a  glance  at  her  companion. 

He  lifted  his  long  lashes  and  met  her  eyes.  "Not  on  a 
haven  of  refuge." 

CHAPTER  IV 

KATE  found  her  sister,  as  the  stranger  had  intimated, 
fully  prepared.  A  hasty  inventory  of  provisions  and 
means  of  subsistence  showed  that  they  had  ample  re 
sources  for  a  much  longer  isolation. 

"They  tell  me  it  is  by  no  means  an  uncommon  case, 
Kate ;  somebody  over  at  somebody's  place  was  snowed  in 
for  four  weeks,  and  now  it  appears  that  even  the  Summit 
House  is  not  always  accessible.  John  ought  to  have 
known  it  when  he  bought  the  place;  in  fact,  I  was 
ashamed  to  admit  that  he  did  not.  But  that  is  like  John 
to  prefer  his  own  theories  to  the  experience  of  others. 
However,  I  don't  suppose  we  should  even  notice  the 
privation  except  for  the  mails.  It  will  be  a  lesson  to 


406  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

John,  though.  As  Mr.  Lee  says,  he  is  on  the  outside, 
and  can  probably  go  wherever  he  likes  from  the  Summit 
except  to  come  here." 

"Mr.  Lee?"  echoed  Kate. 

"Yes,  the  wounded  one;  and  the  other's  name  is 
Falkner.  I  asked  them  in  order  that  you  might  be 
properly  introduced.  There  were  very  respectable  Falk- 
ners  in  Charlestown,  you  remember;  I  thought  you  might 
warm  to  the  name,  and  perhaps  trace  the  connection,  now 
that  you  are  such  good  friends.  It's  providential  they 
are  here,  as  we  haven't  got  a  horse  or  a  man  in  the 
place  since  Manuel  disappeared,  though  Mr.  Falkner 
says  he  can't  be  far  away,  or  they  would  have  met  him 
on  the  trail  if  he  had  gone  towards  the  Summit." 

"Did  they  say  anything  more  of  Manuel  ?" 

"Nothing;  though  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  you  that 
he  isn't  trustworthy.  But  that  again  is  the  result  of 
John's  idea  of  employing  native  skill  at  the  expense  of 
retaining  native  habits." 

The  evening  closed  early,  and  with  no  diminution  in 
the  falling  rain  and  rising  wind.  Falkner  kept  his  word, 
and  unostentatiously  performed  the  out-door  work  in  the 
barn  and  stables,  assisted  by  the  only  Chinese  servant 
remaining,  and  under  the  advice  and  supervision  of  Kate. 
Although  he  seemed  to  understand  horses,  she  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  he  betrayed  a  civic  ignorance  of  the 
ordinary  details  of  the  farm  and  rustic  household.  It  was 
quite  impossible  that  she  should  retain  her  distrustful 
attitude,  or  he  his  reserve  in  their  enforced  companion 
ship.  They  talked  freely  of  subjects  suggested  by  the 
situation,  Falkner  exhibiting  a  general  knowledge  and 
intuition  of  things  without  parade  or  dogmatism.  Doubt 
ful  of  all  versatility  as  Kate  was,  she  could  not  help  ad 
mitting  to  herself  that  his  truths  were  none  the  less  true 
for  their  quantity  or  that  he  got  at  them  without  os 
tentatious  processes.  His  talk  certainly  was  more  pic 
turesque  than  her  brother's,  and  less  subduing  to  her  fac 
ulties.  John  had  always  crushed  her. 

When  they  returned  to  the  house  he  did  not  linger  in 
the  parlor  or  sitting-room,  but  at  once  rejoined  his  friend. 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  407 

When  dinner  was  ready  in  the  dining-room,  a  little  more 
deliberately  arranged  and  ornamented  than  usual,  the  two 
women  were  somewhat  surprised  to  receive  an  excuse 
from  Falkner,  begging  them  to  allow  him  for  the  present 
to  take  his  meals  with  the  patient,  and  thus  save  the 
necessity  of  another  attendant. 

"It  is  all  shyness,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  confidently, 
"and  must  not  be  permitted  for  a  moment." 

"I'm  sure  I  should  be  quite  willing  to  stay  with  the  poor 
boy  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  simply,  "and  take  Mr.  Falk- 
ner's  place  while  he  dines." 

"You  are  too  willing,  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  pertly, 
"and  your  'poor  boy,'  as  you  call  him,  will  never  see 
thirty-five  again." 

"He  will  never  see  any  other  birthday!"  retorted  her 
mother,  "unless  you  keep  him  more  quiet.  He  only  talks 
when  you're  in  the  room." 

"He  wants  some  relief  to  his  friend's  long  face  and 
moustachios  that  make  him  look  prematurely  in  mourn 
ing,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  with  a  slight  increase  of  animation. 
"I  don't  propose  to  leave  them  too  much  together.  After 
dinner  we'll  adjourn  to  their  room  and  lighten  it  up  a 
little.  You  must  come,  Kate,  to  look  at  the  patient,  and 
counteract  the  baleful  effects  of  my  frivolity." 

Mrs.  Hale's  instincts  were  truer  than  her  mother's  ex 
perience  ;  not  only  that  the  wounded  man's  eyes  became 
brighter  under  the  provocation  of  her  presence,  but  it  was 
evident  that  his  naturally  exuberant  spirits  were  a  part 
of  his  vital  strength,  and  were  absolutely  essential  to  his 
quick  recovery.  Encouraged  by  Falkner's  grave  and  prac 
tical  assistance,  which  she  could  not  ignore,  Kate  ven 
tured  to  make  an  examination  of  Lee's  wound.  Even  to 
her  unpractised  eye  it  was  less  serious  than  at  first  ap 
peared.  The  great  loss  of  blood  had  been  due  to  the 
laceration  of  certain  small  vessels  below  the  knee,  but 
neither  artery  nor  bone  was  injured.  A  recurrence  of  the 
haemorrhage  or  fever  was  the  only  thing  to  be  feared, 
and  these  could  be  averted  by  bandaging,  repose,  and  sim 
ple  nursing. 

The  Unfailing  good  humor  of  the  patient  under  this 


408  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

manipulation,  the  quaint  originality  of  his  speech,  the 
freedom  of  his  fancy,  which  was,  however,  always  con 
trolled  by  a  certain  instinctive  tact,  began  to  affect  Kate 
nearly  as  it  had  the  others.  She  found  herself  laughing 
over  the  work  she  had  undertaken  in  a  pure  sense  of 
duty;  she  joined  in  the  hilarity  produced  by  Lee's  affected 
terror  of  her  surgical  mania,  and  offered  to  undo  the 
bandages  in  search  of  the  thimble  he  declared  she  had  left 
in  the  wound  with  a  view  to  further  experiments. 

"You  ought  to  broaden  your  practice,"  he  suggested. 
"A  good  deal  might  be  made  out  of  Ned  and  a  piece  of 
soap  left  carelessly  on  the  first  step  of  the  staircase, 
while  mountains  of  surgical  opportunities  lie  in  a  humble 
orange  peel  judiciously  exposed.  Only  I  warn  you  that 
you  wouldn't  find  him  as  docile  as  I  am.  Decoyed  into  a 
snow-drift  and  frozen,  you  might  get  some  valuable  ex 
periences  in  resuscitation  by  thawing  him." 

"I  fancied  you  had  done  that  already,  Kate,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Hale. 

"Freezing  is  the  new  suggestion  for  painless  surgery," 
said  Lee,  coming  to  Kate's  relief  with  ready  tact,  "only 
the  knowledge  should  be  more  generally  spread.  There 
was  a  man  up  at  Strawberry  fell  under  a  sledge-load  of 
wood  in  the  snow.  Stunned  by  the  shock,  he  was  slowly 
freezing  to  death,  when,  with  a  tremendous  effort,  he 
succeeded  in  freeing  himself  all  but  his  right  leg,  pinned 
down  by  a  small  log.  His  axe  happened  to  have  fallen 
within  reach,  and  a  few  blows  on  the  log  freed  him." 

"And  saved  the  poor  fellow's  life,"  said  Mrs.  Scott, 
who  was  listening  with  sympathizing  intensity. 

"At  the  expense  of  his  left  leg,  which  he  had  unknow 
ingly  cut  off  under  the  pleasing  supposition  that  it  was  a 
log,"  returned  Lee  demurely. 

Nevertheless,  in  a  few  moments  he  managed  to  divert 
the  slightly  shocked  susceptibilities  of  the  old  lady  with 
some  raillery  of  himself,  and  did  not  again  interrupt  the 
even  good-humored  communion  of  the  party.  The  rain 
beating  against  the  windows  and  the  fire  sparkling  on  the 
hearth  seemed  to  lend  a  charm  to  their  peculiar  isolation, 
and  it  was  not  until  Mrs.  Scott  rose  with  a  warning  that 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 


409 


they  were  trespassing  upon  the  rest  of  their  patient  that 
they  discovered  that  the  evening  had  slipped  by  unnoticed. 
When  the  door  at  last  closed  on  the  bright,  sympathetic 
eyes  of  the  two  young  women  and  the  motherly  benedic 
tion  of  the  elder,  Falkner  walked  to  the  window,  and 
remained  silent,  looking  into  the  darkness.  Suddenly  he 
turned  bitterly  to  his  companion. 

"This  is  just  h— 11,  George." 

George  Lee,  with  a  smile  on  his  boyish  face,  lazily 
moved  his  head. 

"I  don't  know!  If  it  wasn't  for  the  old  woman,  who 
is  the  one  solid  chunk  of  absolute  goodness  here,  expect 
ing  nothing,  wanting  nothing,  it  would  be  good  fun 
enough !  These  two  women,  cooped  up  in  this  house, 
wanted  excitement.  They've  got  it !  That  man  Hale 
wanted  to  show  off  by  going  for  us ;  he's  had  his  chance, 
and  will  have  it  again  before  I've  done  with  him.  That 
d — d  fool  of  a  messenger  wanted  to  go  out  of  his  way 
to  exchange  shots  with  me;  I  reckon  he's  the  most  satis 
fied  of  the  lot!  I  don't  know  why  you  should  growl. 
You  did  your  level  best  to  get  away  from  here,  and  the 
result  is,  that  little  Puritan  is  ready  to  worship  you." 

"Yes — but  this  playing  it  on  them — George — this — " 

"Who's  playing  it?  Not  you;  I  see  you've  given  away 
our  names  already." 

"I  couldn't  lie,  and  they  know  nothing  by  that." 

"Do  you  think  they  would  be  happier  by  knowing  it? 
Do  you  think  that  soft  little  creature  would  be  as  happy 
as  she  was  to-night  if  she  knew  that  her  husband  had 
been  indirectly  the  means  of  laying  me  by  the  heels  here? 
Where  is  the  swindle?  This  hole  in  my  leg?  If  you 
had  been  five  minutes  under  that  girl's  d — d  sympathetic 
fingers  you'd  have  thought  it  was  genuine.  Is  it  in  our 
trying  to  get  away?  Do  you  call  that  ten-feet  drift  in 
the  pass  a  swindle  ?  Is  it  in  the  chance  of  Hale  getting 
back  while  we're  here?  That's  real  enough,  isn't  it? 
I  say,  Ned,  did  you  ever  give  your  unfettered  intellect  to 
the  contemplation  of  that?" 

Falkner  did  not  reply.  There  was  an  interval  of  si 
lence,  but  he  could  see  from  the  movement  of  George's 


410  SNOW-BOUXD    AT    EAGLE'S 

shoulders  that  he  was  shaking  with  suppressed  laughter. 

"Fancy  Mrs.  Hale  archly  introducing  her  husband ! 
My  offering  him  a  chair,  but  being  all  the  time  obliged 
to  cover  him  with  a  derringer  under  the  bedclothes. 
Your  rushing  in  from  your  peaceful  pastoral  pursuits 
in  the  barn,  with  a  pitchfork  in  one  hand  and  the  girl 
in  the  other,  and  dear  old  mammy  sympathizing  all  round 
and  trying  to  make  everything  comfortable." 

"I  should  not  be  alive  to  see  it,  George,"  said  Falkner 
gloomily. 

"You'd  manage  to  pitchfork  me  and  those  two  women 
on  Hale's  horse  and  ride  away;  that's  what  you'd  do, 
or  I  don't  know  you !  Look  here,  Ned,"  he  added  more 
seriously,  "the  only  swindling  was  our  bringing  that  note 
here.  That  was  your  idea.  You  thought  it  would  remove 
suspicion,  and  as  you  believed  I  was  bleeding  to  death 
you  played  that  game  for  all  it  was  worth  to  save  me. 
You  might  have  done  what  I  asked  you  to  do — propped 
me  up  in  the  bushes,  and  got  away  yourself.  I  was 
good  for  a  couple  of  shots  yet,  and  after  that — what 
mattered  ?  That  night,  the  next  day,  the  next  time  I  take 
the  road,  or  a  year  hence?  It  will  come  when  it  will 
come,  all  the  same !" 

He  did  not  speak  bitterly,  nor  relax  his  smile.  Falkner, 
without  speaking,  slid  his  hand  along  the  coverlet.  Lee 
grasped  it,  and  their  hands  remained  clasped  together 
for  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 

"How  is  this  to  end?  We  cannot  go  on  here  in  this 
way,"  said  Falkner  suddenly. 

"If  we  cannot  get  away  it  must  go  on.  Look  here, 
Ned.  I  don't  reckon  to  take  anything  out  of  this  house 
that  I  didn't  bring  in  it,  or  isn't  freely  offered  to  me ;  yet 
I  don't  otherwise,  you  understand,  intend  making  myself 
out  a  d — d  bit  better  than  I  am.  That's  the  only  excuse 
I  have  for  not  making  myself  out  just  what  I  am.  I 
don't  know  the  fellow  who's  obliged  to  tell  every  one 
the  last  company  he  was  in,  or  the  last  thing  he  did ! 
Do  you  suppose  even  these  pretty  little  women  tell  us 
their  whole  story?  Do  you  fancy  that  this  St.  John  in 
the  wilderness  is  canonized  in  his  family?  Perhaps, 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  411 

when  I  take  the  liberty  to  intrude  in  his  affairs,  as  he 
has  in  mine,  he'd  see  he  isn't.  I  don't  blame  you  for 
being  sensitive,  Ned.  It's  natural.  When  a  man  lives 
outside  the  revised  statutes  of  his  own  State  he  is  apt 
to  be  awfully  fine  on  points  of  etiquette  in  his  own  house 
hold.  As  for  me,  I  find  it  rather  comfortable  here.  The 
beds  of  other  people's  making  strike  me  as  being  more 
satisfactory  than  my  own.  Good-night." 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  sleeping  the  peaceful  sleep 
of  that  youth  which  seemed  to  be  his  own  dominant 
quality.  Falkner  stood  for  a  little  space  and  watched 
him,  following  the  boyish  lines  of  his  cheek  on  the  pillow, 
from  the  shadow  of  the  light  brown  lashes  under  his 
closed  lids  to  the  lifting  of  his  short  upper  lip  over  his 
white  teeth,  with  his  regular  respiration.  Only  a  sharp 
accenting  of  the  line  of  nostril  and  jaw  and  a  faint  de 
pression  of  the  temple  betrayed  his  already  tried  man 
hood. 

The  house  had  long  sunk  to  repose  when  Falkner 
returned  to  the  window,  and  remained  looking  out  upon 
the  storm.  Sudenly  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  pass 
ing  quickly  to  the  bed  laid  his  hand  upon  the  sleeper. 
Lee  opened  his  eyes  instantly. 

"Are  you  awake?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Somebody  is  trying  to  get  into  the  house !" 

"Not  him,  eh  ?"  said  Lee  gayly. 

"No;  two  men.  Mexicans,  I  think.  One  looks  like 
Manuel." 

"Ah,"  said  Lee,  drawing  himself  up  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"Well?" 

"Don't  you  see?     He  believes  the  women  are  alone." 

"The  dog— d— d  hound !" 

"Speak  respectfully  of  one  of  my  people,  if  you  please, 
and  hand  me  my  derringer.  Light  the  candle  again,  and 
open  the  door.  Let  them  get  in  quietly.  They'll  come 
here  first.  It's  his  room,  you  understand,  and  if  there's 
any  money  it's  here.  Anyway,  they  must  pass  here  to 
get  to  the  women's  rooms.  Leave  Manuel  to  me,  and 
you  take  care  of  the  other." 


412  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

"I  see." 

"Manuel  knows  the  house,  and  will  come  first.  When 
he's  fairly  in  the  room  shut  the  door  and  go  for  the 
other.  But  no  noise.  This  is  just  one  of  the  sw-eetest 
things  out — if  it's  done  properly." 

"But  you,  George?" 

"If  I  couldn't  manage  that  fellow  without  turning  down 
the  bedclothes  I'd  kick  myself.  Hush.  Steady  now." 

He  lay  down  and  shut  his  eyes  as  if  in  natural  repose. 
Only  his  right  hand,  carelessly  placed  under  his  pillow, 
closed  on  the  handle  of  his  pistol.  Falkner  quietly  slipped 
into  the  passage.  The  light  of  the  candle  faintly  illu 
minated  the  floor  and  opposite  wall,  but  left  it  on  either 
side  in  pitchy  obscurity. 

For  some  moments  the  silence  was  broken  only  by  the 
sound  of  the  rain  without.  The  recumbent  figure  in  bed 
seemed  to  have  actually  succumbed  to  sleep.  The  multi 
tudinous  small  noises  of  a  house  in  repose  might  have 
been  misinterpreted  by  ears  less  keen  than  the  sleeper's; 
but  when  the  apparent  creaking  of  a  far-off  shutter  was 
followed  by  the  sliding  apparition  of  a  dark  head  of 
tangled  hair  at  the  door,  Lee  had  not  been  deceived,  and 
was  as  prepared  as  if  he  had  seen  it.  Another  step,  and 
the  figure  entered  the  room.  The  door  closed  instantly 
behind  it.  The  sound  of  a  heavy  body  struggling  against 
the  partition  outside  followed,  and  then  suddenly  ceased. 

The  intruder  turned,  and  violently  grasped  the  handle 
of  the  door,  but  recoiled  at  a  quiet  voice  from  the  bed. 

"Drop  that,  and  come  here." 

He  started  back  with  an  exclamation.  The  sleeper's 
eyes  were  wide  open;  the  sleeper's  extended  arm  and 
pistol  covered  him. 

"Silence !  or  I'll  let  that  candle  shine  through  you !" 

"Yes,  captain !"  growled  the  astounded  and  frightened 
half-breed.  "I. didn't  know  you  were  here." 

Lee  raised  himself,  and  grasped  the  long  whip  in  his 
left  hand  and  whirled  it  round  his  head. 

"Will  you  dry  up?" 

The  man  sank  back  against  the  wall  in  silent  terror. 

"Open  that  door  now — softly." 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 


413 


Manuel  obeyed  with  trembling  fingers. 

"Ned,"  said  Lee  in  a  low  voice,  "bring  him  in  here — 
quick." 

There  was  a  slight  rustle,  and  Falkner  appeared,  back 
ing  in  another  gasping  figure,  whose  eyes  were  starting 
under  the  strong  grasp  of  the  captor  at  his  throat. 

"Silence,"  said  Lee,  "all  of  you." 

There  was  a  breathless  pause.  The  sound  of  a  door 
hesitatingly  opened  in  the  passage  broke  the  stillness, 
followed  by  the  gentle  voice  of  Mrs.  Scott. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?" 

Lee  made  a  slight  gesture  of  warning  to  Falkner,  of 
menace  to  the  others.  "Everything's  the  matter,"  he  called 
out  cheerily.  "Ned's  managed  to  half  pull  down  the 
house  trying  to  get  at  something  from  my  saddle-bags." 

"I  hope  he  has  not  hurt  himself,"  broke  in  another 
voice  mischievously. 

"Answer,  you  clumsy  villain,"  whispered  Lee,  with 
twinkling  eyes. 

"I'm  all  right,  thank  you,"  responded  Falkner,  with 
unaffected  awkwardness. 

There  was  a  slight  murmuring  of  voices,  and  then  the 
door  was  heard  to  close.  Lee  turned  to  Falkner. 

"Disarm  that  hound  and  turn  him  loose  outside,  and 
make  no  noise.  And  you,  Manuel !  tell  him  what  his  and 
your  chances  are  if  he  shows  his  black  face  here  again." 

Manuel  cast  a  single,  terrified,  supplicating  glance, 
more  suggestive  than  words,  at  his  confederate,  as  Falk 
ner  shoved  him  before  him  from  the  room.  The  next 
moment  they  were  silently  descending  the  stairs. 

"May  I  go  too,  captain?"  entreated  Manuel.  "I  swear 
to  God—" 

"Shut  the  door !"    The  man  obeyed. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Lee,  with  a  broad,  gratified  smile, 
laying  down  his  whip  and  pistol  within  reach,  and  com 
fortably  settling  the  pillows  behind  his  back,  "we'll  have 
a  quiet  confab.  A  sort  of  old-fashioned  talk,  eh  ?  You're 
not  looking  well,  Manuel.  You're  drinking  too  much 
again.  It  spoils  your  complexion." 

"Let  me  go,  captain,"   pleaded   the   man,   emboldened 


414  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

by  the  good-humored  voice,  but  not  near  enough  to 
notice  a  peculiar  light  in  the  speaker's  eye. 

"You've  only  just  come,  Manuel;  and  at  considerable 
trouble,  too.  Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say?  What's 
all  this  about?  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

The  captured  man  shuffled  his  feet  nervously,  and  only 
uttered  an  uneasy  laugh  of  coarse  discomfiture. 

"I  see.  You're  bashful.  Well,  I'll  help  you  along. 
Come !  You  knew  that  Hale  was  away  and  these  women 
were  here  without  a  man  to  help  them.  You  thought 
you'd  find  some  money  here,  and  have  your  own  way 
generally,  eh?" 

The  tone  of  Lee's  voice  inspired  him  to  confidence ; 
unfortunately,  it  inspired  him  with  familiarity  also. 

"I  reckoned  I  had  the  right  to  a  little  fun  on  my  own 
account,  cap.  I  reckoned  ez  one  gentleman  in  the  pro 
fession  wouldn't  interfere  with  another  gentleman's  little 
game,"  he  continued  coarsely. 

"Stand  up." 

"Wot  for?" 

"Up,  I  say !" 

Manuel  stood  up  and  glanced  at  him. 

"Utter  a  cry  that  might  frighten  these  women,  and  by 
the  living  God  they'll  rush  in  here  only  to  find  you  lying 
dead  on  the  floor  of  the  house  you'd  have  polluted." 

He  grasped  the  whip  and  laid  the  lash  of  it  heavily 
twice  over  the  ruffian's  shoulders.  Writhing  in  sup 
pressed  agony,  the  man  fell  imploringly  on  his  knees. 

"Now,  listen !"  said  Lee,  softly  twirling  the  whip  in 
the  air.  "I  want  to  refresh  your  memory.  Did  you  ever 
learn,  when  you  were  with  me — before  I  was  obliged  to 
kick  you  out  of  gentlemen's  company — to  break  into  a 
private  house?  Answer!" 

"No,"  stammered  the  wretch. 

"Did  you  ever  learn  to  rob  a  woman,  a  child,  or  any 
but  a  man,  and  that  face  to  face?" 

"No,"  repeated  Manuel. 

"Did  you  ever  learn  from  me  to  lay  a  finger  upon  a 
woman,  old  or  young,  in  anger  or  kindness?" 

"No." 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  415 

"Then,  my  poor  Manuel,  it's  as  I  feared;  civilization 
has  ruined  you.  Farming  and  a  simple,  bucolic  life  have 
perverted  your  morals.  So  you  were  running  off  with  the 
stock  and  that  mustang,  when  you  got  stuck  in  the  snow; 
and  the  luminous  idea  of  this  little  game  struck  you? 
Eh?  That  was  another  mistake,  Manuel;  I  never 
allowed  you  to  think  when  you  were  with  me." 

"No,  captain." 

"Who's  your  friend?" 

"A  d — d  cowardly  nigger  from  the  Summit." 

"I  agree  with  you  for  once;  but  he  hasn't  had  a  very 
brilliant  example.  Where's  he  gone  now?" 

"To  h— 11,  for  all  I  care !" 

"Then  I  want  you  to  go  with  him.  Listen.  If  there's 
a  way  out  of  the  place,  you  know  it  or  can  find  it.  I 
give  you  two  days  to  do  it — you  and  he.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  the  order  will  be  to  shoot  you  on  sight. 
Now  take  off  your  boots." 

The  man's  dark  face  visibly  whitened,  his  teeth  chat 
tered  in  superstitious  terror. 

"I'm  not  going  to  shoot  you  now,"  said  Lee,  smiling, 
"so  you  will  have  a  chanc  i  to  die  with  your  boots  on,1 
if  you  are  superstitious.  I  only  want  you  to  exchange 
them  for  that  pair  of  Hale's  in  the  corner.  The  fact  is 
I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  yours.  That  fashion  of  wearing 
the  stockings  outside  strikes  me  as  one  of  the  neatest 
things  out." 

Manuel  suddenly  drew  off  his  boots  with  their  muffled 
covering,  and  put  on  the  ones  designated. 

"Now  open  the  door." 

He  did  so.  Falkner  was  already  waiting  at  the 
threshold.  "Turn  Manuel  loose  with  the  other,  Ned,  but 
disarm  him  first.  They  might  quarrel.  The  habit  of 
carrying  arms,  Manuel,"  added  Lee,  as  Falkner  took  a 
pistol  and  bowie-knife  from  the  half-breed,  "is  of  itself 
provocative  of  violence,  and  inconsistent  with  a  bucolic 
and  pastoral  life." 

i  "  To  die  with  one's  boots  on."  A  synonym  for  death  by  violence, 
popular  among  Southwestern  desperadoes,  and  the  subject  of  superstitious 
dread. 


416  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

When  Falkner  returned  he  said  hurriedly  to  his  com 
panion,  "Do  you  think  it  wise,  George,  to  let  those 
hell-hounds  loose  ?  Good  God !  I  could  scarcely  let  my 
grip  of  his  throat  go,  when  I  thought  of  what  they  were 
hunting." 

"My  dear  Ned,"  said  Lee,  luxuriously  ensconcing  him 
self  under  the  bedclothes  again  with  a  slight  shiver  of 
delicious  warmth,  "I  must  warn  you  against  allowing  the 
natural  pride  of  a  higher  walk  to  prejudice  you  against 
the  general  level  of  our  profession.  Indeed,  I  was  quite 
struck  with  the  justice  of  Manuel's  protest  that  I  was 
interfering  with  certain  rude  processes  of  his  own 
towards  results  aimed  at  by  others." 

"George !"  interrupted  Falkner,  almost  savagely. 

"Well.  I  admit  it's  getting  rather  late  in  the  evening 
for  pure  philosophical  inquiry,  and  you  are  tired.  Prac 
tically,  then,  it  was  wise  to  let  them  get  away  before 
.  they  discovered  two  things.  One,  our  exact  relations 
here  with  these  women ;  and  the  other,  how  many  of  us 
were  here.  At  present  they  think  we  are  three  or  four  in 
possession  and  with  the  consent  of  the  women." 

"The  dogs !" 

"They  are  paying  us  the  highest  compliment  they  can 
conceive  of  by  supposing  us  cleverer  scoundrels  than 
themselves.  You  are  very  unjust,  Ned." 

"If  they  escape  and  tell  their  story?" 

"We  shall  have  the  rare  pleasure  of  knowing  we  are 
better  than  people  believe  us.  And  now  put  those  boots 
away  somewhere  where  we  can  produce  them  if  neces 
sary,  as  evidence  of  Manuel's  evening  call.  At  present 
we'll  keep  the  thing  quiet,  and  in  the  early  morning  you 
can  find  out  where  they  got  in  and  remove  any  traces 
they  have  left.  It  is  no  use  to  frighten  the  women. 
There's  no  fear  of  their  returning." 

"And  if  they  get  away?" 

"We  can  follow  in  their  tracks." 

"If  Manuel  gives  the  alarm?" 

"With  his  burglarious  boots  left  behind  in  the  house? 
Not  much  !  Good-night,  Ned.  Go  to  bed." 

With  these  words  Lee  turned  on  his  side  and  quietly 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  417 

resumed  his  interrupted  slumber.  Falkner  did  not,  how 
ever,  follow  this  sensible  advice.  When  he  was  satisfied 
that  his  friend  was  sleeping  he  opened  the  door  softly 
and  looked  out.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  listening,  for 
his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  small  pencil  of  light  that 
stole  across  the  passage  from  the  foot  of  Kate's  door. 
He  watched  it  until  it  suddenly  disappeared,  when,  leav 
ing  the  door  partly  open,  he  threw  himself  on  his  couch 
without  removing  his  clothes.  The  slight  movement 
awakened  the  sleeper,  who  was  beginning  to  feel  the 
accession  of  fever.  He  moved  restlessly. 

"George,"  said  Falkner,  softly. 

"Yes." 

"Where  was  it  we  passed  that  old  Mission  Church  on 
the  road  one  dark  night,  and  saw  the  light  burning  be 
fore  the  figure  of  the  Virgin  through  the  window?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  crushing  silence.  "Does  that 
mean  you're  wanting  to  light  the  candle  again?" 

"No." 

"Then  don't  lie  there  inventing  sacrilegious  conun 
drums,  but  go  to  sleep." 

Nevertheless,  in  the  morning  his  fever  was  slightly 
worse.  Mrs.  Hale,  offering  her  condolence,  said,  "I  know 
that  you  have  not  been  resting  well,  for  even  after  your 
friend  met  with  that  mishap  in  the  hall,  I  heard  your 
voices,  and  Kate  says  your  door  was  open  all  night.  You 
have  a  little  fever  too,  Mr.  Falkner." 

George  looked  curiously  at  Falkner's  pale  face — it  was 
burning. 

CHAPTER  V 

THE  speed  and  fury  with  which  Clinch's  cavalcade 
swept  on  in  the  direction  of  the  mysterious  shot  left  Hale 
no  chance  for  reflection.  He  was  conscious  of  shouting 
incoherently  with  the  others,  of  urging  his  horse  irresist 
ibly  forward,  of  momentarily  expecting  to  meet  or  over 
take  something,  but  without  any  further  thought.  The 
figures  of  Clinch  and  Rawlins  immediately  before  him 
shut  out  the  prospect  of  the  narrowing  trail.  Once  only, 

14  v.  2 


418  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

taking  advantage  of  a  sudden  halt  that  threw  them  con 
fusedly  together,  he  managed  to  ask  a  question. 

"Lost  their  track — found  it  again!"  shouted  the  ostler, 
as  Clinch,  with  a  cry  like  the  baying  of  a  hound,  again 
darted  forward.  Their  horses  were  panting  and  trembling 
under  them,  the  ascent  seemed  to  be  growing  steeper,  a 
singular  darkness,  which  even  the  density  of  the  wood  did 
not  sufficiently  account  for,  surrounded  them,  but  still 
their  leader  madly  urged  them  on.  To  Hale's  returning 
senses  they  did  not  seem  in  a  condition  to  engage  a  single 
resolute  man,  who  might  have  ambushed  in  the  woods  or 
beaten  them  in  detail  in  the  narrow  gorge,  but  in  another 
instant  the  reason  of  their  furious  haste  was  manifest. 
Spurring  his  horse  ahead,  Clinch  dashed  out  into  the  open 
with  a  cheering  shout — a  shout  that  as  quickly  changed 
to  a  yell  of  imprecation.  They  were  on  the  Ridge  in  a 
blinding  snow-storm !  The  road  had  already  vanished 
under  their  feet,  and  with  it  the  fresh  trail  they  had  so 
closely  followed !  They  stood  helplessly  on  the  shore 
of  a  trackless  white  sea,  blank  and  spotless  of  any  trace 
or  sign  of  the  fugitives. 

"  'Pears  to  me,  boys,"  said  the  ostler,  suddenly  ranging 
before  them,  "ef  you're  not  kalkilatin'  on  gittin'  another 
party  to  dig  ye  out,  ye'd  better  be  huntin'  fodder  and  cover 
instead  of  road  agents.  'Skuse  me,  gentlemen,  but  I'm 
responsible  for  the  bosses,  and  this  ain't  no  time  for 
circus-ridin'.  We're  a  matter  o'  six  miles  from  the  sta 
tion  in  a  bee  line." 

"Back  to  the  trail,  then,"  said  Clinch,  wheeling  his 
horse  towards  the  road  they  had  just  quitted. 

"  'Skuse  me,  Kernel,"  said  the  ostler,  laying  his  hand 
on  Clinch's  rein,  "but  that  way  only  brings  us  back  the 
road  we  kem — the  stage  road — three  miles  further  from 
home.  That  three  miles  is  on  the  divide,  and  by  the  time 
we  get  there  it  will  be  snowed  up  worse  nor  this.  The 
shortest  cut  is  along  the  Ridge.  If  we  hump  ourselves 
we  ken  cross  the  divide  afore  the  road  is  blocked.  And 
that,  'skuse  me,  gentlemen,  is  my  road." 

There  was  no  time  for  discussion.  The  road  was  al 
ready  palpably  thickening  under  their  feet.  Hale's  arm 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  419 

was  stiffened  to  his  side  by  a  wet,  clinging  snow- 
wreath.  The  figures  of  the  others  were  almost  obliterated 
and  shapeless.  It  was  not  snowing — it  was  snowballing! 
The  huge  flakes,  shaken  like  enormous  feathers  out  of 
a  vast  blue-black  could,  commingled  and  fell  in  sprays 
and  patches.  All  idea  of  their  former  pursuit  was  for 
gotten;  the  blind  rage  and  enthusiasm  that  had  possessed 
them  was  gone.  They  dashed  after  their  new  leader 
with  only  an  instinct  for  shelter  and  succor. 

They  had  not  ridden  long  when  fortunately,  as  it 
seemed  to  Hale,  the  character  of  the  storm  changed. 
The  snow  no  longer  fell  in  such  large  flakes,  nor  as 
heavily.  A  bitter  wind  succeeded;  the  soft  snow  began 
to  stiffen  and  crackle  under  the  horses'  hoofs;  they  were 
no  longer  weighted  and  encumbered  by  the  drifts  upon 
their  bodies;  the  smaller  flakes  now  rustled  and  rasped 
against  them  like  sand,  or  bounded  from  them  like  hail. 
They  seemed  to  be  moving  more  easily  and  rapidly,  their 
spirits  were  rising  with  the  stimulus  of  cold  and  motion, 
when  suddenly  their  leader  halted. 

"It's  no  use,  boys.  It  can't  be  done !  This  is  no  bliz 
zard,  but  a  regular  two  days'  snifter !  It's  no  longer 
meltin',  but  packin'  and  driftin'  now.  Even  if  we  get 
over  the  divide,  we're  sure  to  be  blocked  up  in  the  pass." 

It  was  true !  To  their  bitter  disappointment  they  could 
now  see  that  the  snow  had  not  really  diminished  in 
quantity,  but  that  the  now  finely-powdered  particles  were 
rapidly  filling  all  inequalities  of  the  surface,  packing 
closely  against  projections,  and  swirling  in  long  furrows 
across  the  levels.  They  looked  with  anxiety  at  their 
self-constituted  leader. 

"We  must  make  a  break  to  get  down  in  the  woods 
again  before  it's  too  late,"  he  said  briefly. 

But  they  had  already  drifted  away  from  the  fringe  of 
larches  and  dwarf  pines  that  marked  the  sides  of  the 
Ridge,  and  lower  down  merged  into  the  dense  forest  that 
clothed  the  flank  of  the  mountain  they  had  lately  climbed, 
and  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  they  again 
reached  it,  only  to  find  that  at  that  point  it  was  too 
precipitous  for  the  descent  of  their  horses.  Benumbed 


420  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

and  speechless,  they  continued  to  toil  on,  opposed  to  the 
full  fury  of  the  stinging  snow,  and  at  times  obliged  to 
turn  their  horses  to  the  blast  to  keep  from  being  blown 
over  the  Ridge.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  ostler 
dismounted,  and,  beckoning  to  the  others,  took  his 
horse  by  the  bridle,  and  began  the  descent.  When  it 
came  to  Hale's  turn  to  dismount  he  could  not  help  at 
first  recoiling  from  the  prospect  before  him.  The  trail — 
if  it  could  be  so  called — was  merely  the  track  or  furrow 
of  some  fallen  tree  dragged,  by  accident  or  design, 
diagonally  across  the  sides  of  the  mountain.  At  times  it 
appeared  scarcely  a  foot  in  width ;  at  other  times  a  mere 
crumbling  gully,  or  a  narrow  shelf  made  by  the  projec 
tions  of  dead  boughs  and  collected  debris.  It  seemed 
perilous  for  a  foot  passenger,  it  appeared  impossible  for  a 
horse.  Nevertheless,  he  had  taken  a  step  forward  when 
Clinch  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You'll  bring  up  the  rear,"  he  said  not  unkindly,  "ez 
you're  a  stranger  here.  Wait  until  we  sing  out  to  you." 

"But  if  I  prefer  to  take  the  same  risks  as  you  all?" 
said  Hale  stiffly. 

"You  kin,"  said  Clinch  grimly.  "But  I  reckoned,  as 
you  wern't  familiar  with  this  sort  o'  thing,  you  wouldn't 
keer,  by  any  foolishness  o'  yours,  to  stampede  the  rocks 
ahead  of  us,  and  break  down  the  trail,  or  send  down  an 
avalanche  on  top  of  us.  But  just  ez  you  like." 

"I  will  wait,  then,"  said  Hale  hastily. 

The  rebuke,  however,  did  him  good  service.  It  pre 
occupied  his  mind,  so  that  it  remained  unaffected  by  the 
dizzy  depths,  and  enabled  him  to  abandon  himself  me 
chanically  to  the  sagacity  of  his  horse,  who  was  con 
tented  simply  to  follow  the  hoofprints  of  the  preceding 
animal,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  reached  the  broader 
trail  without  a  mishap.  A  discussion  regarding  their 
future  movements  was  already  taking  place.  The  impos 
sibility  of  regaining  the  station  at  the  Summit  was 
admitted ;  the  way  down  the  mountain  to  the  next  settle 
ment  was  still  left  to  them,  or  the  adjacent  woods,  if  they 
wished  for  an  encampment.  The  ostler  once  more 
assumed  authority. 


SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S  421 

"  'Skuse  me,  gentlemen,  but  them  horses  don't  take  no 
pascar  down  the  mountain  to-night.  The  stage-road 
ain't  a  mile  off,  and  I  kalkilate  to  wait  here  till  the  up 
stage  comes.  She's  bound  to  stop  on  account  of  the 
snow;  and  I've  done  my  dooty  when  I  hand  the  horses 
over  to  the  driver." 

"But  if  she  hears  of  the  block  up  yer,  and  waits  at  the 
lower  station?"  said  Rawlins. 

"Then  I've  done  my  dooty  all  the  same.  'Skuse  me, 
gentlemen,  but  them  ez  hez  their  own  horses  kin  do  ez 
they  like." 

As  this  clearly  pointed  to  Hale,  he  briefly  assured 
his  companions  that  he  had  no  intention  of  deserting 
them.  "If  I  cannot  reach  Eagle's  Court,  I  shall  at  least 
keep  as  near  it  as  possible.  I  suppose  any  messenger 
from  my  house  to  the  Summit  will  learn  where  I  am  and 
why  I  am  delayed?" 

"Messenger  from  your  house !"  gasped  Rawlins.  "Are 
you  crazy,  stranger?  Only  a  bird  would  get  outer 
Eagle's  now ;  and  it  would  hev  to  be  an  eagle  at  that ! 
Between  your  house  and  the  Summit  the  snow  must  be 
ten  feet  by  this  time,  to  say  nothing  of  the  drift  in  the 
pass." 

Hale  felt  it  was  the  truth.  At  any  other  time  he  would 
have  worried  over  this  unexpected  situation,  and  utter 
violation  of  all  his  traditions.  He  was  past  that  now, 
and  even  felt  a  certain  relief.  He  knew  his  family  were 
safe ;  it  was  enough.  That  they  were  locked  up  securely, 
and  incapable  of  interfering  with  him,  seemed  to  enhance 
his  new,  half-conscious,  half-shy  enjoyment  of  an  ad 
venturous  existence. 

The  ostler,  who  had  been  apparently  lost  in  contempla 
tion  of  the  steep  trail  he  had  just  descended,  suddenly 
clapped  his  hand  to  his  leg  with  an  ejaculation  of  grati 
fied  astonishment. 

"Waal,  darn  my  skin  ef  that  ain't  Hennicker's  'slide' 
all  the  time !  I  heard  it  was  somewhat  about  here." 

Rawlins  briefly  explained  to  Hale  that  a  slide  was  a 
rude  incline  for  the  transit  of  heavy  goods  that  could 
not  be  carried  down  a  trail. 


422  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

"And  Hennicker's,"  continued  the  man,  "ain't  more 
nor  a  mile  away.  Ye  might  try  Hennicker's  at  a  push, 
eh?" 

By  a  common  instinct  the  whole  party  looked  dubi 
ously  at  Hale.  "Who's  Hennicker?"  he  felt  compelled 
to  ask. 

The  ostler  hesitated,  and  glanced  at  the  others  to 
reply.  "There  are  folks,"  he  said  lazily,  at  last,  "ez 
beleeves  that  Hennicker  ain't  much  better  nor  the  crowd 
we're  hunting;  but  they  don't  say  it  to  Hennicker.  We 
needn't  let  on  what  we're  after." 

"I  for  one,"  said  Hale  stoutly,  "decidedly  object  to 
any  concealment  of  our  purpose." 

"It  don't  follow,"  said  Rawlins  carelessly,  "that  Hen 
nicker  even  knows  of  this  yer  robbery.  It's  his  gineral 
gait  we  refer  to.  Ef  yer  think  it  more  polite,  and  it 
makes  it  more  sociable  to  discuss  this  matter  afore  him, 
I'm  agreed." 

"Hale  means,"  said  Clinch,  "that  it  wouldn't  be  on 
the  square  to  take  and  make  use  of  any  points  we  might 
pick  up  there  agin  the  road  agents." 

"Certainly,"  said  Hale.  It  was  not  at  all  what  he 
had  meant,  but  he  felt  singularly  relieved  at  the  com 
promise. 

"And  ez  I  reckon  Hennicker  ain't  such  a  fool  ez  not 
to  know  who  we  are  and  what  we're  out  for,"  continued 
Clinch,  "I  reckon  there  ain't  any  concealment." 

"Then  it's  Hennicker's?"  said  the  ostler,  with  swift 
deduction. 

"Hennicker's  it  is !     Lead  on." 

The  ostler  remounted  his  horse,  and  the  others  fol 
lowed.  The  trail  presently  turned  into  a  broader  track, 
that  bore  some  signs  of  approaching  habitations,  and  at 
the  end  of  five  minutes  they  came  upon  a  clearing.  It 
was  part  of  one  of  the  fragmentary  mountain  terraces, 
and  formed  by  itself  a  vast  niche,  or  bracketed  shelf,  in 
the  hollow  flank  of  the  mountain  that,  to  Hale's  first 
glance,  bore  a  rude  resemblance  to  Eagle's  Court.  But 
there  was  neither  meadow  nor  open  field;  the  few  acres 
of  ground  had  been  wrested  from  the  forest  by  axe  and 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  423 

fire,  and  unsightly  stumps  everywhere  marked  the  rude 
and  difficult  attempts  at  cultivation.  Two  or  three  rough 
buildings  of  unplaned  and  unpainted  boards,  connected 
by  rambling  sheds,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  amphi 
theatre.  Far  from  being  protected  by  the  encircling  ram 
part,  it  seemed  to  be  the  selected  arena  for  the  combating 
elements.  A  whirlwind  from  the  outer  abyss  continually 
filled  this  cave  of  yEolus  with  driving  snow,  which,  how 
ever,  melted  as  it  fell,  or  was  quickly  whirled  away 
again. 

A  few  dogs  barked  and  ran  out  to  meet  the  cavalcade, 
but  there  was  no  other  sign  of  any  life  disturbed  or 
concerned  at  their  approach. 

"I  reckon  Hennicker  ain't  home,  or  he'd  hev  been  on 
the  lookout  afore  this,"  said  the  ostler,  dismounting  and 
rapping  on  the  door. 

After  a  silence,  a  female  voice,  unintelligibly  to  the 
others,  apparently  had  some  colloquy  with  the  ostler, 
who  returned  to  the  party. 

"Must  go  in  through  the  kitchin — can't  open  the  door 
for  the  wind." 

Leaving  their  horses  in  the  shed,  they  entered  the 
kitchen,  which  communicated,  and  presently  came  upon 
a  square  room  filled  with  smoke  from  a  fire  of  green  pine 
logs.  The  doors  and  windows  were  tightly  fastened; 
the  only  air  came  in  through  the  large-throated  chimney 
in  voluminous  gusts,  which  seemed  to  make  the  hollow 
shell  of  the  apartment  swell  and  expand  to  the  point  of 
bursting.  Despite  the  stinging  of  the  resinous  smoke,  the 
temperature  was  grateful  to  the  benumbed  travellers. 
Several  cushionless  arm-chairs,  such  as  were  used  in 
bar-rooms,  two  tables,  a  sideboard,  half  bar  and  half 
cupboard,  and  a  rocking-chair  comprised  the  furniture, 
and  a  few  bear  and  buffalo  skins  covered  the  floor.  Hale 
sank  into  one  of  the  arm-chairs,  and,  with  a  lazy  satis 
faction,  partly  born  of  his  fatigue  and  partly  from  some 
newly-discovered  appreciative  faculty,  gazed  around  the 
room,  and  then  at  the  mistress  of  the  house,  with  whom 
the  others  were  talking. 

She   was   tall,   gaunt,  and   withered;   in   spite   of   her 


424  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

evident  years,  her  twisted  hair  was  still  dark  and  full, 
and  her  eyes  bright  and  piercing;  her  complexion  and 
teeth  had  long  since  succumbed  to  the  vitiating  effects 
of  frontier  cookery,  and  her  lips  were  stained  with  the 
yellow  juice  of  a  brier-wood  pipe  she  held  in  her  mouth. 
The  ostler  had  explained  their  intrusion,  and  veiled  their 
character  under  the  vague  epithet  of  a  "hunting  party," 
and  was  now  evidently  describing  them  personally.  In 
his  new-found  philosophy  the  fact  that  the  interest  of 
his  hostess  seemed  to  be  excited  only  by  the  names  of  his 
companions,  that  he  himself  was  carelessly,  and  even 
deprecatingly,  alluded  to  as  the  "stranger  from  Eagle's" 
by  the  ostler,  and  completely  overlooked  by  the  old 
woman,  gave  him  no  concern. 

"You'll  have  to  talk  to  Zenobia  yourself.  Dod  rot  ef 
I'm  gine  to  interfere.  She  knows  Hennicker's  ways,  and 
if  she  chooses  to  take  in  transients  it  ain't  no  funeral  o' 
mine.  Zeenie  !  You,  Zeenie  !  Look  yer  !" 

A  tall,  lazy-looking,  handsome  girl  appeared  on  the 
threshold  of  the  next  room,  and  with  a  hand  on  each 
door-post  slowly  swung  herself  backwards  and  forwards, 
without  entering.  "Well,  Maw?" 

The  old  woman  briefly  and  unalluringly  pictured  the 
condition  of  the  travellers. 

"Paw  ain't  here,"  began  the  girl  doubtfully,  "and — 
How  dy,  Dick !  is  that  you  ?"  The  interruption  was 
caused  by  her  recognition  of  the  ostler,  and  she  lounged 
into  the  room.  In  spite  of  a  skimp,  slatternly  gown, 
whose  straight  skirt  clung  to  her  lower  limbs,  there  was 
a  quaint,  nymph-like  contour  to  her  figure.  Whether 
from  languor,  ill-health,  or  more  probably  from  a  morbid 
consciousness  of  her  own  height,  she  moved  with  a 
slightly  affected  stoop  that  had  become  a  habit.  It 
did  not  seem  ungraceful  to  Hale,  already  attracted  by 
her  delicate  profile,  her  large  dark  eyes,  and  a  certain 
weird  resemblance  she  had  to  some  half-domesticated 
dryad. 

"That'll  do,  Maw,"  she  said,  dismissing  her  parent 
with  a  nod.  "I'll  talk  to  Dick." 

As  the  door  closed  on  the  old  woman,  Zenobia  leaned 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  425 

her  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  confronted  the 
admiring  eyes  of  Dick  with  a  goddess-like  indifference. 

"Now  wot's  the  use  of  your  playin'  this  yer  game  on 
me,  Dick?  Wot's  the  good  of  your  ladlin'  out  that  hog- 
wash  about  huntin'?  Huntin' !  I'll  tell  yer  the  huntin' 
you-uns  hev  been  at !  You've  been  huntin'  George  Lee 
and  his  boys  since  an  hour  before  sun  up.  You've  been 
followin'  a  blind  trail  up  to  the  Ridge,  until  the  snow  got 
up  and  hunted  you  right  here !  You've  been  whoopin' 
and  yellin'  and  circus-ridin'  on  the  roads  like  ez  yer  wos 
Comanches,  and  frightening  all  the  women  folk  within 
miles — that's  your  huntin' !  You've  been  climbin'  down 
Paw's  old  slide  at  last,  and  makin'  tracks  for  here  to  save 
the  skins  of  them  condemned  government  horses  of  the 
Kempany !  And  that's  your  huntin' !" 

To  Hale's  surprise,  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  party 
followed  this  speech.  He  tried  to  join  in,  but  this  ridicu 
lous  summary  of  the  result  of  his  enthusiastic  sense  of 
duty  left  him — the  only  earnest  believer  mortified  and  em 
barrassed.  Nor  was  he  the  less  concerned  as  he  found 
the  girl's  dark  eyes  had  rested  pjftt  or  twice  upon  him 
curiously.  Zenobia  laughed  too,  and,  lazily  turning  the 
chair  around,  dropped  into  it.  "And  by  this  time  George 
Lee's  loungin'  back  in  his  chyar  and  smokin'  his  cigyar 
somewhar  in  Sacramento,"  she  added,  stretching  her  feet 
out  to  the  fire,  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word  with  an 
imaginary  cigar  between  the  long  fingers  of  a  thin  and 
not  over-clean  hand. 

"We  cave,  Zeenie!"  said  Rawlins,  when  their  hilarity 
had  subsided  to  a  more  subdued  and  scarcely  less  flat 
tering  admiration  of  the  unconcerned  goddess  before  them. 
"That's  about  the  size  of  it.  You  kin  rake  down  the  pile. 
I  forgot  you're  an  old  friend  of  George's." 

"He's  a  white  man!"  said  the  girl  decidedly. 

"Ye  used  to  know  him?"  continued  Rawlins. 

"Once.     Paw  ain't  in  that  line  now,"  she  said  simply. 

There  was  such  a  sublime  unconsciousness  of  any  moral 
degradation  involved  in  this  allusion  that  even  Hale  ac 
cepted  it  without  a  shock.  She  rose  presently,  and,  going 
to  the  little  sideboard,  brought  out  a  number  of  glasses; 


426  SNOW-BOUND   AT  EAGLE'S 

these  she  handed  to  each  of  the  party,  and  then,  producing 
a  demijohn  of  whiskey,  slung  it  dexterously  and  grace 
fully  over  her  arm,  so  that  it  rested  on  her  elbow  like  a 
cradle,  and,  going  to  each  one  in  succession,  filled  their 
glasses.  It  obliged  each  one  to  rise  to  accept  the  libation, 
and  as  Hale  did  so  in  his  turn  he  met  the  dark  eyes  of 
the  girl  full  on  his  own.  There  was  a  pleased  curiosity 
in  her  glance  that  made  this  married  man  of  thirty-five 
color  as  awkwardly  as  a  boy. 

The  tender  of  refreshment  being  understood  as  a  tacit 
recognition  of  their  claims  to  a  larger  hospitality,  all 
further  restraint  was  removed.  Zenobia  resumed  her  seat, 
and  placing  her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  her 
small  round  chin  in  her  hand,  looked  thoughtfully  in  the 
fire.  "When  I  say  George  Lee's  a  white  man,  it  ain't 
because  I  know  him.  It's  his  general  gait.  Wot's  he 
ever  done  that's  underhanded  or  mean?  Nothin'!  You 
kant  show  the  poor  man  he's  ever  took  a  picayune  from. 
When  he's  helped  himself  to  a  pile  it's  been  outer  them 
banks  or  them  express  companies,  that  think  it  mighty 
fine  to  bust  up  themselves,  and  swindle  the  poor  folks  o' 
their  last  cent,  and  nobody  talks  o'  huntin'  them  I  And 
does  he  keep  their  money  ?  No ;  he  passes  it  round  among 
the  boys  that  help  him,  and  they  put  it  in  circulation.  He 
-don't  keep  it  for  himself;  he  ain't  got  fine  houses  in 
Frisco;  he  don't  keep  fast  horses  for  show.  Like  ez 
not  the  critter  he  did  that  job  with — ef  it  was  him — none 
of  you  boys  would  have  rid !  And  he  takes  all  the  risks 
himself;  you  ken  bet  your  life  that  every  man  with  him 
was  safe  and  away  afore  he  turned  his  back  on  you-uns." 

"He  certainly  drops  a  little  of  his  money  at  draw  poker, 
Zeenie,"  said  Clinch,  laughing.  "He  lost  five  thousand 
dollars  to  Sheriff  Kelly  last  week." 

"Well,  I  don't  hear  of  the  sheriff  huntin'  him  to  give  it 
back,  nor  do  I  reckon  Kelly  handed  it  over  to  the  Express 
it  was  taken  from.  I  heard  you  won  suthin'  from  him  a 
spell  ago.  I  reckon  you've  been  huntin'  him  to  find  out 
whar  you  should  return  it."  The  laugh  was  clearly  against 
Clinch.  He  was  about  to  make  some  rallying  rejoinder 
when  the  young  girl  suddenly  interrupted  him.  "Ef 


SNOW-BOUXD   AT   EAGLE'S  427 

you're  wantin'  to  hunt  somebody,  why  don't  you  take 
higher  game?  Thar's  that  Jim  Harkins:  go  for  him, 
and  I'll  join  you." 

"Harkins!"  exclaimed  Clinch  and  Hale  simultaneously. 

"Yes,  Jim  Harkins;  do  you  know  him?"  she  said, 
glancing  from  one  io  the  other. 

"One  of  my  friends  do,"  said  Clinch  laughing;  "but 
don't  let  that  stop  you." 

"And  you — over  there,"  continued  Zenobia,  bending  her 
head  and  eyes  towards  Hale. 

"The  fact  is — I  believe  he  was  my  banker,"  said  Hale, 
with  a  smile.  "I  don't  know^  him  personally." 

"Then  you'd  better  hunt  him  before  he  does  you." 

"What's  he  done,  Zeenie?"  asked  Rawlins,  keenly  en 
joying  the  discomfiture  of  the  others. 

"What?"  She  stopped,  threw  her  long  black  braids 
over  her  shoulder,  clasped  her  knee  wtih  her  hajids,  and 
rocking  backwards  and  forwards,  sublimely  unconscious 
of  the  apparition  of  a  slim  ankle  and  half-dropped-off 
slipper  from  under  her  shortened  gown,  continued,  "It 
mightn't  please  him,"  she  said  slyly,  nodding  towards 
Hale. 

"Pray  don't  mind  me,"  said  Hale,  with  unnecessary 
eagerness. 

"Well,"  said  Zenobia,  "I  reckon  you  all  know  Ned 
Falkner  and  the  Excelsior  Ditch?" 

"Yes,  Falkner's  the  superintendent  of  it,"  said  Rawlins. 
"And  a  square  man  too.  Thar  ain't  anything  mean  about 
him." 

"Shake,"  said  Zenobia,  extending  her  hand.  Rawlins 
shook  the  proffered  hand  with  eager  spontaneousness,  and 
the  girl  resumed:  "He's  about  ez  good  ez  they  make  'em 
— you  bet  Well,  you  know  Ned  has  put  all  his  money, 
and  all  his  strength,  and  all  his  sabe,  and — " 

"His  good  looks,"  added  Clinch  mischievously. 

"Into  that  Ditch,"  continued  Zenobia,  ignoring  the  in 
terruption.  "It's  his  mother,  it's  his  sweetheart,  it's  his 
everything!  When  other  chaps  of  his  age  was  cavortin' 
round  Frisco,  and  havin*  high  jinks,  Ned  was  in  his 
Ditch.  '.Wait  till  the  Ditch  is  done,'  he  used  to  say. 


428  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

'Wait  till  she  begins  to  boom,  and  then  you  just  stand 
round.'  Mor'n  that,  he  got  all  the  boys  to  put  in  their 
last  cent — for  they  loved  Ned,  and  love  him  new,  like  ez 
ef  he  wos  a  woman." 

"That's  so,"  said  Clinch  and  Rawlins  simultaneously, 
"and  he's  worth  it." 

"Well,"  continued  Zenobia,  "the  Ditch  didn't  boom  ez 
soon  ez  they  kalkilated.  And  then  the  boys  kept  gettin' 
poorer  and  poorer,  and  Ned  he  kept  gettin'  poorer  and 
poorer  in  everything  but  his  hopefulness  and  grit.  Then 
he  looks  around  for  more  capital.  And  about  this  time, 
that  coyote  Harkins  smelt  suthin'  nice  up  there,  and  he 
gits  Ned  to  give  him  control  of  it,  and  he'll  lend  him  his 
name  and  fix  up  a  company.  Soon  ez  he  gets  control,  the 
first  thing  he  does  is  to  say  that  it  wants  half  a  million  o' 
money  to  make  it  pay,  and  levies  an  assessment  of  two 
hundred  dollars  a  share.  That's  nothin'  for  them  rich 
fellows  to  pay,  or  pretend  to  pay,  but  for  boys  on  grub 
wages  it  meant  only  ruin.  They  couldn't  pay,  and  had  to 
forfeit  their  shares  for  next  to  nothing.  And  Ned  made 
one  more  desperate  attempt  to  save  them  and  himself  by 
borrowing  money  on  his  shares ;  when  that  hound 
Harkins  got  wind  of  it,  and  let  it  be  buzzed  around  that 
the  Ditch  is  a  failure,  and  that  he  was  goin'  out  of  it; 
that  brought  the  shares  down  to  nothing.  As  Ned  couldn't 
raise  a  dollar,  the  new  company  swooped  down  on  his 
shares  for  the  debts  they  had  put  up.  and  left  him  and 
the  boys  to  help  themselves.  Ned  couldn't  bear  to  face 
the  boys  that  he'd  helped  to  ruin,  and  put  out,  and  ain't 
been  heard  from  since.  After  Harkins  had  got  rid  of 
Ned  and  the  boys  he  manages  to  pay  off  that  wonderful 
debt,  and  sells  out  for  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  That 
money — Ned's  money — he  sends  to  Sacramento,  for  he 
don't  dare  to  travel  with  it  himself,  and  is  kalkilatin'  to 
leave  the  kentry,  for  some  of  the  boys  allow  to  kill  him 
on  sight.  So  ef  you're  wantin'  to  hunt  suthin',  thar's 
yer  chance,  and  you  needn't  go  inter  the  snow  to  do  it." 

"But  surely  the  law  can  recover  this  money?"  said 
Hale  indignantly.  "It  is  as  infamous  a  robbery  as — " 
He  stopped  as  he  caught  Zenobia's  eye. 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  429 

"Ez  last  night's,  you  were  goin'  to  say.  I'll  call  it 
more.  Them  road  agents  don't  pretend  to  be  your  friend 
— but  take  yer  money  and  run  their  risks.  For  ez  to  the 
law — that  can't  help  yer." 

"It's  a  skin  game,  and  you  might  ez  well  expect  to 
recover  a  gambling  debt  from  a  short-card  sharp,"  ex 
plained  Clinch;  "Falkner  oughter  shot  him  on  sight." 

"Or  the  boys  lynched  him,"  suggested  Rawlins. 

"I  think,"  said  Hale,  more  reflectively,  "that  in  the 
absence  of  legal  remedy  a  man  of  that  kind  should  have 
been  forced  under  strong  physical  menace  to  give  up  his 
ill-gotten  gains.  The  money  was  the  primary  object,  and 
if  that  could  be  got  without  bloodshed — which  seems  to 
me  a  useless  crime — it  would  be  quite  as  effective.  Of 
course,  if  there  was  resistance  or  retaliation,  it  might  be 
necessary  to  kill  him." 

He  had  unconsciously  fallen  into  his  old  didactic  and 
dogmatic  habit  of  speech,  and  perhaps,  under  the  spur  of 
Zenobia's  eyes,  he  had  given  it  some  natural  emphasis.  A 
dead  silence  followed,  in  which  the  others  regarded  him 
with  amused  and  gratified  surprise,  and  it  was  broken  only 
by  Zenobia  rising  and  holding  out  her  hand.  "Shake!" 

Hale  raised  it  gallantly,  and  pressed  his  lips  on  the  one 
spotless  finger. 

"That's  gospel  truth.  And  you  ain't  the  first  white 
man  to  say  it." 

"Indeed,"  laughed  Hale.     "Who  was  the  other?" 

"George  Lee !" 

CHAPTER  VI 

THE  laughter  that  followed  was  interrupted  by  a  sud 
den  barking  of  the  dogs  in  the  outer  clearing.  Zenobia 
rose  lazily  and  strode  to  the  window.  It  relieved  Hale 
of  certain  embarrassing  reflections  suggested  by  her  com 
ment. 

"Ef  it  ain't  that  God-forsaken  fool  Dick  bringing  up 
passengers  from  the  snow-bound  up  stage  in  the  road !  I 
reckon  I've  got  suthin'  to  say  to  that !"  But  the  later 
appearance  of  the  apologetic  Dick,  with  the  assurance  that 


430  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

the  party  carried  a  permission  from  her  father,  granted 
at  the  lower  station  in  view  of  such  an  emergency, 
checked  her  active  opposition.  "That's  like  Paw,"  she 
soliloquized  aggrievedly ;  "shuttin'  us  up  and  settin'  dogs 
on  everybody  for  a  week,  and  then  lettin'  the  whole  stage 
service  pass  through  one  door  and  out  at  another.  Well, 
it's  his  house  and  his  jwhiskey,  and  they  kin  take  it,  but 
they  don't  get  me  to  nelp  'em." 

They  certainly  were  not  a  prepossessing  or  good- 
natured  acquisition  to  the  party.  Apart  from  the  natural 
antagonism  which,  on  such  occasions,  those  in  possession 
always  feel  towards  the  new-comer,  they  were  strongly 
inclined  to  resist  the  dissatisfied  querulousness  and  ag 
gressive  attitude  of  these  fresh  applicants  for  hospitality. 
The  most  offensive  one  was  a  person  who  appeared  to  ex 
ercise  some  authority  over  the  others.  He  was  loud, 
assuming,  and  dressed  with  vulgar  pretension.  He 
quickly  disposed  himself  in  the  chair  vacated  by.  Zenobia, 
and  called  for  some  liquor. 

"I  reckon  you'll  hev  to  help  yourself,"  said  Rawlins 
dryly,  as  the  summons  met  with  no  response.  "There  are 
only  two  women  in  the  house,  and  I  reckon  their  hands 
are  full  already." 

"I  call  it  d — d  uncivil  treatment,"  said  the  man,  raising 
his  voice ;  "and  Hennicker  had  better  sing  smaller  if 
he  don't  want  his  old  den  pulled  down  some  day.  He 
ain't  any  better  than  men  that  hev  been  picked  up  afore 
now." 

"You  oughter  told  him  that,  and  mebbe  he'd  hev  come 
over  with  yer,"  returned  Rawlins.  "He's  a  mild, 
soft,  easy-going  man,  is  Hennicker !  Ain't  he,  Colonel 
Clinch?" 

The  casual  mention  of  Clinch's  name  produced  the  effect 
which  the  speaker  probably  intended.  The  stranger  stared 
at  Clinch,  who,  apparently  oblivious  of  the  conversation, 
was  blinking  his  cold  gray  eyes  at  the  fire.  Dropping  his 
aggressive  tone  to  mere  querulousness,  the  man  sought 
the  whiskey  demijohn,  and  helped  himself  and  his  com 
panions.  Fortified  by  liquor  he  returned  to  the  fire. 

"I  reckon  you've  heard  about  this  yer  robbery,  Colonel," 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  431 

he  said,  addressing  Clinch,  with  an  attempt  at  easy 
familiarity. 

Without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  fire,  Clinch  briefly 
assented,  "I  reckon." 

"I'm  up  yer,  examining  into  it,  for  the  Express." 

"Lost  much?"  asked  Rawlins. 

"Not  so  much  ez  they  might  hev.  That  fool  Harkins 
had  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  greenbacks  sealed  up 
like  an  ordinary  package  of  a  thousand  dollars,  and  gave 
it  to  a  friend,  Bill  Guthrie,  in  the  bank  to  pick  out  some 
unlikely  chap  among  the  passengers  to  take  charge  of  it 
to  Reno.  He  wouldn't  trust  the  Express.  Ha !  ha !" 

The  dead,  oppressive  silence  that  followed  his  empty 
laughter  made  it  seem  almost  artificial.  Rawlins  held  his 
breath  and  looked  at  Clinch.  Hale,  with  the  instincts  of 
a  refined,  sensitive  man,  turned  hot  with  the  embarrass 
ment  Clinch  should  have  shown.  For  that  gentleman, 
without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  fire,  and  with  no  ap 
parent  change  in  his  demeanor,  lazily  asked — 

"Ye  didn't  ketch  the  name  o'  that  passenger?" 

"Naturally,  no !  For  when  Guthrie  heard  what  was 
said  agin  him  he  wouldn't  give  his  name  until  he  heard 
from  him." 

"And  what  was  said  agin  him  ?"  asked  Clinch  musingly. 

"What  would  be  said  agin  a  man  that  give  up  that  sum 
o'  money,  like  a  chaw  of  tobacco,  for  the  asking?  Why, 
there  were  but  three  men,  as  far  ez  we  kin  hear,  that 
did  the  job.  And  there  were  four  passengers  inside, 
armed,  and  the  driver  and  express  messenger  on  the  box. 
Six  were  robbed  by  three! — they  were  a  sweet-scented 
lot !  Reckon  they  must  hev  felt  mighty  small,  for  I  hear 
they  got  up  and  skedaddled  from  the  station  under  the 
pretext  of  lookin'  for  the  robbers."  He  laughed  again, 
and  the  laugh  was  noisily  repeated  by  his  five  companions 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

Hale,  who  had  forgotten  that  the  stranger  was  only 
echoing  a  part  of  his  own  criticism  of  eight  hours  before, 
was  on  the  point  of  rising  with  burning  cheeks  and  angry 
indignation,  when  the  lazily  uplifted  eye  of  Clinch  caught 
his,  and  absolutely  held  him  down  with  its  paralyzing  and 


432  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

deadly  significance.  Murder  itself  seemed  to  look  from 
those  cruelly  quiet  and  remorseless  gray  pupils.  For  a 
moment  he  forgot  his  own  rage  in  this  glimpse  of  Clinch's 
implacable  resentment;  for  a  moment  he  felt  a  thrill  of 
pity  for  the  wretch  who  had  provoked  it.  He  remained 
motionless  and  fascinated  in  his  chair  as  the  lazy  lids 
closed  like  a  sheath  over  Clinch's  eyes  again.  Rawlins, 
who  had  probably  received  the  same  glance  of  warning, 
remained  equally  still. 

"They  haven't  heard  the  last  of  it  yet,  you  bet,"  con 
tinued  the  infatuated  stranger.  "I've  got  a  little  state 
ment  here  for  the  newspaper,"  he  added,  drawing  some 
papers  from  his  pocket;  "suthin'  I  just  run  off  in  the 
coach  as  I  came  along.  I  reckon  it'll  show  things  up  in 
a  new  light.  It's  time  there  should  be  some  change.  All 
the  cussin'  that's  been  usually  done  hez  been  by  the  pas 
sengers  agin  the  express  and  stage  companies.  I  propose 
that  the  Company  should  do  a  little  cussin'  themselves. 
See?  P'r'aps  you  don't  mind  my  readin'  it  to  ye?  It's 
just  spicy  enough  to  suit  them  newspaper  chaps." 

"Go  on,"  said  Colonel  Clinch  quietly. 

The  man  cleared  his  throat,  with  the  preliminary  pose 
of  authorship,  and  his  five  friends,  to  whom  the  compo 
sition  was  evidently  not  unfamiliar,  assumed  anticipatory 
smiles. 

"I  call  it  'Prize  Pusillanimous  Passengers.'  Sort  of 
runs  easy  off  the  tongue,  you  know. 

"  Tt  now  appears  that  the  success  of  the  late  stage 
coach  robbery  near  the  Summit  was  largely  due  to  the 
pusillanimity — not  to  use  a  more  serious  word'  " —  He 
stopped,  and  looked  explanatorily  towards  Clinch :  "Ye'll 
see  in  a  minit  what  I'm  gettin'  at  by  that  pusillanimity  of 
the  passengers  themselves.  'It  now  transpires  that  there 
were  only  three  robbers  who  attacked  the  coach,  and  that 
although  passengers,  driver,  and  express  messenger  were 
fully  armed,  and  were  double  the  number  of  their  assail 
ants,  not  a  shot  was  fired.  We  mean  no  reflections  upon 
the  well-known  courage  of  Yuba  Bill,  nor  the  experience 
and  coolness  of  Bracy  Tibbetts,  the  courteous  express 
messenger,  both  of  whom  have  since  confessed  to  have 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  433 

been  more  than  astonished  at  the  Christian  and  lamb-like 
submission  of  the  insiders.  Amusing  stories  of  some 
laughable  yet  sickening  incidents  of  the  occasion — such  as 
grown  men  kneeling  in  the  road,  and  offering  to  strip 
themselves  completely,  if  their  lives  were  only  spared;  of 
one  of  the  passengers  hiding  under  the  seat,  and  only 
being  dislodged  by  pulling  his  coat-tails;  of  incredible 
sums  promised,  and  even  offers  of  menial  service,  for  the 
preservation  of  their  wretched  carcases — are  received 
with  the  greatest  gusto;  but  we  are  in  possession  of  facts 
which  may  lead  to  more  serious  accusations.  Although 
one  of  the  passengers  is  said  to  have  lost  a  large  sum  of 
money  intrusted  to  him,  while  attempting  with  barefaced 
effrontery  to  establish  a  rival  "carrying"  business  in  one 
of  the  Express  Company's  own  coaches — '  I  call  that  a 
good  point."  He  interrupted  himself  to  allow  the  unre 
strained  applause  of  his  own  party.  "Don't  you?" 

"It's  just  h — 11,"  said  Clinch  musingly. 

"  'Yet  the  affair,"  resumed  the  stranger  from  his  man 
uscript,  "  'is  locked  up  in  great  and  suspicious  mystery. 
The  presence  of  Jackson  N.  Stanner,  Esq.'  (that's  me), 
"special  detective  agent  to  the  Company,  and  his  staff  in 
town,  is  a  guaranty  that  the  mystery  will  be  thoroughly 
probed.'  Hed  to  put  that  in  to  please  the  Company," 
he  again  deprecatingly  explained.  "  'We  are  indebted  to 
this  gentleman  for  the  facts.'  " 

"The  pint  you  want  to  make  in  that  article,"  said 
Clinch,  rising,  but  still  directing  his  face  and  his  conver 
sation  to  the  fire,  "ez  far  ez  I  ken  see  ez  that  no  three 
men  kin  back  down  six  unless  they  be  cowards,  or  are 
willing  to  be  backed  down." 

"That's  the  point  what  I  start  from,"  rejoined  Stanner, 
"and  work  up.  I  leave  it  to  you  ef  it  ain't  so." 

"I  can't  say  ez  I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  Colonel  dryly. 
He  turned,  and  still  without  lifting  his  eyes  walked 
towards  the  door  of  the  room  which  Zenobia  had  entered. 
The  key  was  on  the  inside,  but  Clinch  gently  opened  the 
door,  removed  the  key,  and  closing  the  door  again  locked 
it  from  his  side.  Hale  and  Rawlins  felt  their  hearts  beat 
quickly;  the  others  followed  Clinch's  slow  movements  and 


434  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

downcast  mien  with  amused  curiosity.  After  locking  the 
other  outlet  from  the  room,  and  putting  the  keys  in  his 
pocket,  Clinch  returned  to  the  fire.  For  the  first  time  he 
lifted  his  eyes ;  the  man  nearest  him  shrank  back  in  terror. 

"I  am  the  man,"  he  said  slowly,  taking  deliberate  breath 
between  his  sentences,  "who  gave  up  those  greenbacks  to 
the  robbers.  I  am  one  of  the  three  passengers  you  have 
lampooned  in  that  paper,  and  these  gentlemen  beside  me 
are  the  other  two."  He  stopped  and  looked  around  him. 
"You  don't  believe  that  three  men  can  back  down  six! 
Well,  I'll  show  you  how  it  can  be  done.  More  than  that, 
I'll  show  you  how  ONE  man  can  do  it;  for,  by  the  living 
G — d,  if  you  don't  hand  over  that  paper  I'll  kill  you  where 
you  sit !  I'll  give  you  until  I  count  ten ;  if  one  of  you 
moves  he  and  you  are  dead  men — but  you  first !" 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking  Hale  and  Rawlins  had 
both  risen,  as  if  in  concert,  with  their  weapons  drawn. 
Hale  could  not  tell  how  or  why  he  had  done  so,  but  he 
was  equally  conscious,  without  knowing  why,  of  fixing  his 
eye  on  one  of  the  other  party,  and  that  he  should,  in  the 
event  of  an  affray,  try  to  kill  him.  He  did  not  attempt 
to  reason;  he  only  knew  that  he  should  do  his  best  to 
kill  that  man  and  perhaps  others. 

"One,"  said  Clinch,  lifting  his  derringer,  "two — • 
three—" 

"Look  here,  Colonel — I  swear  I  didn't  know  it  was 
you.  Come — d — m  it !  I  say — see  here,"  stammered 
Stanner,  with  white  cheeks,  not  daring  to  glance  for  aid 
to  his  stupefied  party. 

"Four — five — six — " 

"Wait !  Here !"  He  produced  the  paper  and  threw  it 
on  the  floor. 

"Pick  it  up  and  hand  it  to  me.     Seven — eight — " 

Stanner  hastily  scrambled  to  his  feet,  picked  up  the 
paper,  and  handed  it  to  the  Colonel.  "I  was  only  joking, 
Colonel,"  he  said,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  But  as  this  joke  is  in  black  and 
white,  you  wouldn't  mind  saying  so  in  the  same  fashion. 
Take  that  pen  and  ink  and  write  as  I  dictate.  'I  certify 
that  I  am  satisfied  that  the  above  statement  is  a  base 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  435 

calumny  against  the  characters  of  Ringwood  Clinch,  Rob 
ert  Rawlins,  and  John  Hale,  passengers,  and  that  I  do 
hereby  apologize  to  the  same.'  Sign  it.  That'll  do. 
Now  let  the  rest  of  your  party  sign  as  witnesses." 

They  complied  without  hesitation ;  some,  seizing  the  op 
portunity  of  treating  the  affair  as  a  joke,  suggested  a 
drink. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Clinch  quietly,  "but  ez  this  house 
ain't  big  enough  for  me  and  that  man,  and  ez  I've  got 
business  at  Wild  Cat  Station  with  this  paper,  I  think  I'll 
go  without  drinkin'."  He  took  the  keys  from  his  pocket, 
unlocked  the  doors,  and  taking  up  his  overcoat  and  rifle 
turned  as  if  to  go. 

Rawlins  rose  to  follow  him ;  Hale  alone  hesitated.  The 
rapid  occurrences  of  the  last  half  hour  gave  him  no  time 
for  reflection.  But  he  was  by  no  means  satisfied  of  the 
legality  of  the  last  act  he  had  aided  and  abetted,  although 
he  admitted  its  rude  justice,  and  felt  he  would  have  done 
so  again.  A  fear  of  this,  and  an  instinct  that  he  might 
be  led  into  further  complications  if  he  continued  to 
identify  himself  with  Clinch  and  Rawlins;  the  fact  that 
•they  had  professedly  abandoned  their  quest,  and  that  it 
was  really  supplanted  by  the  presence  of  an  authorized 
party  whom  they  had  already  come  in  conflict  with — afl 
this  urged  him  to  remain  behind.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
apparent  desertion  of  his  comrades  at  the  last  moment 
was  opposed  both  to  his  sense  of  honor  and  the  liking 
he  had  taken  to  them.  But  he  reflected  that  he  had  al 
ready  shown  his  active  partisanship,  that  he  could  be  of 
little  service  to  them  at  Wild  Cat  Station,  and  would  be 
only  increasing  the  distance  from  his  home;  and  above 
all,  an  impatient  longing  for  independent  action  finally  de 
cided  him.  "I  think  I'll  stay  here,"  he  said  to  Clinch, 
"unless  you  want  me." 

Clinch  cast  a  swift  and  meaning  glance  at  the  enemy, 
but  looked  approval.  "Keep  your  eyes  skinned,  and  you're 
good  for  a  dozen  of  'em,"  he  said  sotto  voce,  and  then 
turned  to  Stanner.  "I'm  going  to  take  this  paper  to  Wild 
Cat.  If  you  want  to  communicate  with  me  hereafter  you 
know  where  I  am  to  be  found,  unless — "  he  smiled  grimly 


436  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

— "you'd  like  to  see  me  outside  for  a  few  minutes  before 
I  go?" 

"It  is  a  matter  that  concerns  the  Stage  Company,  not 
me,"  said  Stanner,  with  an  attempt  to  appear  at  his  ease. 

Hale  accompanied  Clinch  and  Rawlins  through  the 
kitchen  to  the  stables.  The  ostler,  Dick,  had  already  re 
turned  to  the  rescue  of  the  snow-bound  coach. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  many  men  alone  with  that 
crowd,"  said  Clinch,  pressing  Hale's  hand;  "and  I 
wouldn't  have  allowed  your  staying  behind  ef  I  didn't 
know  I  could  bet  my  pile  on  you.  Your  offerin'  to  stay 
just  puts  a  clean  finish  on  it.  Look  yer,  Hale,  I  didn't 
cotton  much  to  you  at  first ;  but  ef  you  ever  want  a  friend, 
call  on  Ringwood  Clinch." 

"The  same  here,  old  man,"  said  Rawlins,  extending  his 
hand  as  he  appeared  from  a  hurried  conference  with  the 
old  woman  at  the  woodshed,  "and  trust  to  Zeenie  to  give 
you  a  hint  ef  there's  anythin'  underhanded  goin'  on.  So 
long." 

Half  inclined  to  resent  this  implied  suggestion  of  pro 
tection,  yet  half  pleased  at  the  idea  of  a  confidence  with 
the  handsome  girl  he  had  seen,  Hale  returned  to  the  room. 
A  whispered  discussion  among  the  party  ceased  on  his 
entering,  and  an  awkward  silence  followed,  which  Hale 
did  not  attempt  to  break  as  he  quietly  took  his  seat  again 
by  the  fire.  He  was  presently  confronted  by  Stanner, 
who  with  an  affectation  of  easy  familiarity  crossed  over 
to  the  hearth. 

"The  old  Kernel's  d — d  peppery  and  high  toned  when 
he's  got  a  little  more  than  his  reg'lar  three  fingers  o'  corn 
juice,  eh?" 

"I  must  beg  you  to  understand  distinctly,  Mr.  Stanner," 
said  Hale,  with  a  return  of  his  habitual  precision  of  state 
ment,  "that  I  regard  any  slighting  allusion  to  the  gentle 
man  who  has  just  left  not  only  as  in  exceedingly  bad 
taste  coming  from  you,  but  very  offensive  to  myself.  If 
you  mean  to  imply  that  he  was  under  the  influence  of 
liquor,  it  is  my  duty  to  undeceive  you;  he  was  so  per 
fectly  in  possession  of  his  faculties  as  to  express  not  only 
his  own  but  my  opinion  of  your  conduct.  You  must  also 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  437 

admit  that  he  was  discriminating  enough  to  show  his  ob 
jection  to  your  company  by  leaving  it.  I  regret  that 
circumstances  do  not  make  it  convenient  for  me  to  ex 
ercise  that  privilege;  but  if  I  am  obliged  to  put  up  with 
your  presence  in  this  room,  I  strongly  insist  that  it  is 
not  made  unendurable  with  the  addition  of  your  conver 
sation." 

The  effect  of  this  deliberate  and  passionless  declara 
tion  was  more  discomposing  to  the  party  than  Clinch's 
fury.  Utterly  unaccustomed  to  the  ideas  and  language 
suddenly  confronting  them,  they  were  unable  to  determine 
whether  it  was  the  real  expression  of  the  speaker,  or 
whether  it  was  a  vague  badinage  or  affectation  to  which 
any  reply  would  involve  them  in  ridicule.  In  a  country 
terrorized  by  practical  joking,  they  did  not  doubt  but  that 
this  was  a  new  form  of  hoaxing  calculated  to  provoke 
some  response  that  would  constitute  them  as  victims. 
The  immediate  effect  upon  them  was  that  complete  silence 
in  regard  to  himself  that  Hale  desired.  They  drew  to 
gether  again  and  conversed  in  whispers,  while  Hale,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  gave  himself  up  to  somewhat 
late  and  useless  reflection. 

He  could  scarcely  realize  his  position.  For  however 
he  might  look  at  it,  within  a  space  of  twelve  hours  he 
had  not  only  changed  some  of  his  most  cherished  opinions, 
but  he  had  acted  in  accordance  with  that  change  in  a  way 
that  made  it  seem  almost  impossible  for  him  ever  to 
recant.  In  the  interests  of  law  and  order  he  had  en 
gaged  in  an  unlawful  and  disorderly  pursuit  of  criminals, 
and  had  actually  come  in  conflict  not  with  the  criminals, 
but  with  the  only  party  apparently  authorized  to  pursue 
them.  More  than  that,  he  was  finding  himself  committed 
to  a  certain  sympathy  with  the  criminals.  Twenty-four 
hours  ago,  if  anyone  had  told  him  that  he  would  have 
condoned  an  illegal  act  for  its  abstract  justice,  or  assisted 
to  commit  an  illegal  act  for  the  same  purpose,  he  would 
have  felt  himself  insulted.  That  he  knew  he  would  not 
now  feel  it  as  an  insult  perplexed  him  still  more.  In 
these  circumstances  the  fact  that  he  was  separated  from 
his  family,  and  as  it  were  from  all  his  past  life  and  tra- 


438  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

ditions,  by  a  chance  accident,  did  not  disturb  him  greatly; 
indeed,  he  was  for  the  first  time  a  little  doubtful  of  their 
probable  criticism  on  his  inconsistency,  and  was  by  no 
means  in  a  hurry  to  subject  himself  to  it. 

Lifting  his  eyes,  he  was  suddenly  aware  that  the  door 
leading  to  the  kitchen  was  slowly  opening.  He  had 
thought  he  heard  it  creak  once  or  twice  during  his  de 
liberate  reply  to  Stanner.  It  was  evidently  moving  now 
so  as  to  attract  his  attention,  without  disturbing  the 
others.  It  presently  opened  sufficiently  wide  to  show  the 
face  of  Zeenie,  who,  with  a  gesture  of  caution  towards  his 
companions,  beckoned  him  to  join  her.  He  rose  care 
lessly  as  if  going  out,  and,  putting  on  his  hat,  entered 
the  kitchen  as  the  retreating  figure  of  the  young  girl 
glided  lightly  towards  the  stables.  She  ascended  a  few 
open  steps  as  if  to  a  hay-loft,  but  stopped  before  a  low 
door.  Pushing  it  open,  she  preceded  him  into  a  small 
room,  apparently  under  the  roof,  which  scarcely  allowed 
her  to  stand  upright.  By  the  light  of  a  stable  lantern 
hanging  from  a  beam  he  saw  that,  though  poorly  fur 
nished,  it  bore  some  evidence  of  feminine  taste  and  hab 
itation.  Motioning  to  the  only  chair,  she  seated  herself 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  with  her  hands  clasping  her  knees 
in  her  familiar  attitude.  Her  face  bore  traces  of  recent 
agitation,  and  her  eyes  were  shining  with  tears.  By  the 
closer  light  of  the  lantern  he  was  surprised  to  find  it  was 
from  laughter. 

"I  reckoned  you'd  be  right  lonely  down  there  with 
that  Stanner  crowd,  particklerly  after  that  little  speech  o' 
your'n,  so  I  sez  to  Maw  I'd  get  you  up  yer  for  a  spell. 
Maw  and  I  heerd  you  exhort  'em  !  Maw  allowed  you  woz 
talkin'  a  furrin'  tongue  all  along,  but  I — sakes  alive ! — I 
hed  to  hump  myself  to  keep  from  bustin'  into  a  yell  when 
yer  jist  drawed  them  Webster-unabridged  sentences  on 
'em."  She  stopped  and  rocked  backwards  and  forwards 
with  a  laugh  that,  subdued  by  the  proximity  of  the  roof 
and  the  fear  of  being  overheard,  was  by  no  means  un 
musical.  "I'll  tell  ye  whot  got  me,  though !  That  part 
commencing,  'Suckamstances  over  which  I've  no 
controul.'  " 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  439 

"Oh,  come !  I  didn't  say  that,"  interrupted  Hale, 
laughing. 

"  'Don't  make  it  convenient  for  me  to  exercise  the 
privilege  of  kickin'  yer  out  to  that  extent,'  "  she  con 
tinued  ;  "  'but  if  I  cannot  dispense  with  your  room,  the 
least  I  can  say  is  that  it's  a  d — d  sight  better  than  your 
company — '  or  suthin'  like  that !  And  then  the  way  you 
minded  your  stops,  and  let  your  voice  rise  and  fall  just 
ez  easy  ez  if  you  wos  a  First  Reader  in  large  type.  Why, 
the  Kernel  wasn't  nowhere.  His  cussin'  didn't  come 
within  a  mile  o'  yourn.  That  Stanner  jist  turned  yaller." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  Hale,  not 
knowing  whether  to  be  pleased  or  vexed  at  the  girl's 
amusement. 

"I  reckon  I'm  the  only  one  that  dare  do  it,  then,"  said 
the  girl  simply.  "The  Kernel  sez  the  way  you  turned 
round  after  he'd  done  his  cussin',  and  said  yer  believed 
you'd  stay  and  take  the  responsibility  of  the  whole  thing — 
and  did,  in  that  kam,  soft,  did-anybody-speak-to-me  style — 
was  the  neatest  thing  he'd  seen  yet.  No !  Maw  says  I 
ain't  much  on  manners,  but  I  know  a  man  when  I  see 
him." 

For  an  instant  Hale  gave  himself  up  to  the  delicious 
flattery  of  unexpected,  unintended,  and  apparently  unin 
terested  compliment.  Becoming  at  last  a  little  em 
barrassed  under  the  frank  curiosity  of  the  girl's  dark  eyes, 
he  changed  the  subject. 

"Do  you  always  come  up  here  through  the  stables?" 
he  asked,  glancing  round  the  room,  which  was  evidently 
her  own. 

"I  reckon,"  she  answered  half  abstractedly.  "There's  a 
ladder  down  thar  to  Maw's  room — "  pointing  to  a  trap 
door  beside  the  broad  chimney  that  served  as  a  wall — 
"but  it's  handier  the  other  way,  and  nearer  the  hosses  if 
you  want  to  get  away  quick." 

This  palpable  suggestion — borne  out  by  what  he  re 
membered  of  the  other  domestic  details — that  the  house 
had  been  planned  with  reference  to  sudden  foray  or  escape 
reawakened  his  former  uneasy  reflections.  Zeenie,  who 
had  been  watching  his  face,  added,  "It's  no  slouch,  when 


440  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

b'ar  or  painters  hang  round  nights  and  stampede  the 
stock,  to  be  able  to  swing  yourself  on  to  a  hoss  whenever 
you  hear  a  row  going  on  outside." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you — " 

"Paw  used,  and  I  do  now,  sense  I've  come  into  the 
room."  She  pointed  to  a  nondescript  garment,  half  cloak, 
half  habit,  hanging  on  the  wall.  "I've  been  outer  bed  and 
on  Pitchpine's  back  as  far  ez  the  trail  five  minutes  arter 
I  heard  the  first  bellow." 

Hale  regarded  her  with  undisguised  astonishment. 
There  was  nothing  at  all  Amazonian  or  horsey  in  her 
manners,  nor  was  there  even  the  robust  physical  contour 
that  might  have  been  developed  through  such  experiences. 
On  the  contrary,  she  seemed  to  be  lazily  effeminate  in 
body  and  mind.  Heedless  of  his  critical  survey  of  her, 
she  beckoned  him  to  draw  his  chair  nearer,  and,  looking 
into  his  eyes,  said — 

"Whatever  possessed  you  to  take  to  huntin'  men?" 

Hale  was  staggered  by  the  question,  but  nevertheless 
endeavored  to  explain.  But  he  was  surprised  to  find  that 
his  explanation  appeared  stilted  even  to  himself,  and,  he 
could  not  doubt,  was  utterly  incomprehensible  to  the  girl. 
She  nodded  her  head,  however,  and  continued — 

"Then  you  haven't  anythin'  agin'  George  ?" 

"I  don't  know  George,"  said  Hale,  smiling.  "My  pro 
ceeding  was  against  the  highwayman." 

"Well,  he  was  the  highwayman." 

"I  mean,  it  was  the  principle  I  objected  to — a  principle 
that  I  consider  highly  dangerous." 

"Well  he  is  the  principal,  for  the  others  only  helped, 
I  reckon,"  said  Zeenie  with  a  sigh,  "and  I  reckon  he  is 
dangerous." 

Hale  saw  it  was  useless  to  explain.  The  girl  con 
tinued — 

"What  made  you  stay  here  instead  of  going  on  with 
the  Kernel?  There  was  suthin'  else  besides  your  wanting 
to  make  that  Stanner  take  water.  What  is  it?" 

A  light  sense  of  the  propinquity  of  beauty,  of  her  con 
fidence,  of  their  isolation,  of  the  eloquence  of  her  dark 
eyes,  at  first  tempted  Hale  to  a  reply  of  simple  gallantry ; 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  441 

a  graver  consideration  of  the  same  circumstances  froze  it 
upon  his  lips. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  returned  awkwardly. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  she  said.  "You  didn't  cotton 
to  the  Kernel  and  Rawlins  much  more  than  you  did  to 
Stanner.  They  ain't  your  kind." 

In  his  embarrassment  Hale  blundered  upon  the. thought 
he  had  honorably  avoided. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  with  a  constrained  laugh,  "I  had 
stayed  to  see  you." 

"I  reckon  7  ain't  your  kind,  neither,"  she  replied 
promptly.  There  was  a  momentary  pause  when  she  rose 
and  walked  to  the  chimney.  "It's  very  quiet  down  there," 
she  said,  stooping  and  listening  over  the  roughly-boarded 
floor  that  formed  the  ceiling  of  the  room  below.  "I  won 
der  what's  going  on." 

In  the  belief  that  this  was  a  delicate  hint  for  his  return 
to  the  party  he  had  left,  Hale  rose,  but  the  girl  passed  him 
hurriedly,  and,  opening  the  door,  cast  a  quick  glance  into 
the  stable  beyond. 

"Just  as  I  reckoned — the  horses  are  gone  too.  They've 
skedaddled,"  she  said  blankly. 

Hale  did  not  reply.  In  his  embarrassment  a  moment 
ago  the  idea  of  taking  an  equally  sudden  departure  had 
flashed  upon  him.  Should  he  take  this  as  a  justification 
of  that  impulse,  or  how?  He  stood  irresolutely  gazing 
at  the  girl,  who  turned  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs 
silently.  He  followed.  When  they  reached  the  lower 
room  they  found  it  as  they  had  expected — deserted. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  drive  them  away,"  said  Hale,  with  an 
uneasy  look  at  the  troubled  face  of  the  girl.  "For  I  really 
had  an  idea  of  going  myself  a  moment  ago." 

She  remained  silent,  gazing  out  of  the  window.  Then, 
turning  with  a  slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  said  half 
defiantly :  "What's  the  use  now  ?  Oh,  Maw  !  the  Stanner 
crowd  has  vamosed  the  ranch,  and  this  yer  stranger  kalki- 
lates  to  stay!" 


442  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 


A  WEEK  had  passed  at  Eagle's  Court — a  week  of  mingled 
clouds  and  sunshine  by  day,  of  rain  over  the  green 
plateau  and  snow  on  the  mountain  by  night.  Each  morn 
ing  had  brought  its  fresh  greenness  to  the  winter-girt 
domain,  and  a  fresh  coat  of  dazzling  white  to  the  barrier 
that  separated  its  dwellers  from  the  world  beyond.  There 
was  little  change  in  the  encompassing  wall  of  their  prison ; 
if  anything,  the  snowy  circle  round  them  seemed  to  have 
drawn  its  lines  nearer  day  by  day.  The  immediate  result 
of  this  restricted  limit  had  been  to  confine  the  range  of 
cattle  to  the  meadows  nearer  the  house,  and  at  a  safe  dis 
tance  from  the  fringe  of  wilderness  now  invaded  by  the 
prowling  tread  of  predatory  animals. 

Nevertheless,  the  two  figures  lounging  on  the  slope  at 
sunset  gave  very  little  indication  of  any  serious  quality 
in  the  situation.  Indeed,  so  far  as  appearances  were  con 
cerned,  Kate,  who  was  returning  from  an  afternoon  stroll 
with  Falkner,  exhibited,  with  feminine  inconsistency,  a 
decided  return  to  the  world  of  fashion  and  conventionality 
apparently  just  as  she  was  effectually  excluded  from  it. 
She  had  not  only  discarded  her  white  dress  as  a  concession 
to  the  practical  evidence  of  the  surrounding  winter,  but 
she  had  also  brought  out  a  feather  hat  and  sable  muff 
which  had  once  graced  a  fashionable  suburb  of  Boston. 
Even  Falkner  had  exchanged  his  slouch  hat  and  pic 
turesque  serape  for  a  beaver  overcoat  and  fur  cap  of 
Hale's  which  had  been  pressed  upon  him  by  Kate,  under 
the  excuse  of  the  exigencies  of  the  season.  Within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  thicket,  turbulent  with  the  savage 
forces  of  nature,  they  walked  with  the  abstraction  of  peo 
ple  hearing  only  their  own  voices;  in  the  face  of  the 
solemn  peaks  clothed  with  white  austerity  they  talked 
gravely  of  dress. 

"I  don't  mean  to  say,"  said  Kate  demurely,  "that  you're 
to  give  up  the  scrape  entirely;  you  can  wear  it  on  rainy 
nights  and  when  you  ride  over  here  from  your  friend's 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  443 

house  to  spend  the  evening — for  the  sake  of  old  times," 
she  added,  with  an  unconscious  air  of  referring  to  an  al 
ready  antiquated  friendship;  "but  you  must  admit  it's  a 
little  too  gorgeous  and  theatrical  for  the  sunlight  of  day 
and  the  public  highway." 

"But  why  should  that  make  it  wrong,  if  the  experience 
of  a  people  has  shown  it  to  be  a  garment  best  fitted  for 
their  wants  and  requirements?"  said  Falkner  argumenta- 
tively. 

"But  you  are  not  one  of  those  people,"  said  Kate,  "and 
that  makes  all  the  difference.  You  look  differently  and 
act  differently,  so  that  there  is  something  irreconcilable 
between  your  clothes  and  you  that  makes  you  look  odd." 

"And  to  look  odd,  according  to  your  civilized  prejudices, 
is  to  be  wrong,"  said  Falkner  bitterly. 

"It  is  to  seem  different  from  what  one  really  is — which 
is  wrong.  Now,  you  are  a  mining  superintendent,  you 
tell  me.  Then  you  don't  want  to  look  like  a  Spanish 
brigand,  as  you  do  in  that  scrape.  I  am  sure  if  you  had 
ridden  up  to  a  stage-coach  while  I  was  in  it,  I'd  have 
handed  you  my  watch  and  purse  without  a  word.  There ! 
you  are  not  offended  ?"  she  added,  with  a  laugh,  which  did 
not,  however,  conceal  a  certain  earnestness.  "I  suppose 
I  ought  to  have  said  I  would  have  given  it  gladly  to  such 
a  romantic  figure,  and  perhaps  have  got  out  and  danced  a 
saraband  or  bolero  with  you — if  that  is  the  thing  to  do 
nowadays.  Well !"  she  said,  after  a  dangerous  pause, 
"consider  that  I've  said  it." 

He  had  been  walking  a  little  before  her,  with  his 
face  turned  towards  the  distant  mountain.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  and  faced  her.  "You  would  have  given  enough  of 
your  time  to  the  highwayman,  Miss  Scott,  as  would  have 
enabled  you  to  identify  him  for  the  police — and  no  more. 
Like  your  brother,  you  would  have  been  willing  to  sac 
rifice  yourself  for  the  benefit  of  the  laws  of  civilization 
and  good  order." 

If  a  denial  to  this  assertion  could  have  been  expressed 
without  the  use  of  speech,  it  was  certainly  transparent  in 
the  face  and  eyes  of  the  young  girl  at  that  moment.  If 
Falkner  had  been  less  self-conscious  he  would  have  seen 


444  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

it  plainly.  But  Kate  only  buried  her  face  in  her  lifted 
muff,  slightly  raised  her  pretty  shoulders,  and,  dropping 
her  tremulous  eyelids,  walked  on.  "It  seems  a  pity," 
she  said,  after  a  pause,  "that  we  cannot  preserve  our  own 
miserable  existence  without  taking  something  from  others 
— sometimes  even  a  life !"  He  started.  "And  it's  horrid 
to  have  to  remind  you  that  you  have  yet  to  kill  something 
for  the  invalid's  supper/'  she  continued.  "I  saw  a  hare  in 
the  field  yonder." 

"You  mean  that  jackass  rabbit?"  he  said,  abstractedly. 

"What  you  please.  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  take  your  gun 
instead  of  your  rifle." 

"I  brought  the  rifle  for  protection." 

"And  a  shot  gun  is  only  aggressive,  I  suppose?" 

Falkner  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  as  the 
hare  suddenly  started  across  the  open  a  hundred  yards 
away,  brought  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  A  long  interval — 
as  it  seemed  to  Kate — elapsed ;  the  animal  appeared  to  be 
already  safely  out  of  range,  when  the  rifle  suddenly 
cracked;  the  hare  bounded  in  the  air  like  a  ball,  and 
dropped  motionless.  The  girl  looked  at  the  marksman 
in  undisguised  admiration.  "Is  it  quite  dead?"  she  said 
timidly. 

"It  never  knew  what  struck  it." 

"It  certainly  looks  less  brutal  than  shooting  it  with  a 
shot  gun,  as  John  does,  and  then  not  killing  it  outright," 
said  Kate.  "I  hate  what  is  called  sport  and  sportsmen, 
but  a  rifle  seems — " 

"What?"  said  Falkner. 

"More — gentlemanly." 

She  had  raised  her  pretty  head  in  the  air,  and,  with 
her  hand  shading  her  eyes,  was  looking  around  the  clear 
ether,  and  said  meditatively,  "I  wonder — no  matter." 

"What  is  it  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"It  is  something,"  said  Falkner,  with  an  amused  smile, 
reloading  his  rifle. 

"Well,  you  once  promised  me  an  eagle's  feather  for  my 
hat.  Isn't  that  thing  an  eagle?" 

"I  am  afraid  it's  only  a  hawk." 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  445 

"Well,  that  will  do.     Shoot  that !" 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling.  Falkner  withdrew  his  own 
with  a  slight  smile,  and  raised  his  rifle  with  provoking 
deliberation. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it's  what  you  want?"  he  asked 
demurely. 

"Yes— quick !" 

Nevertheless,  it  was  some  minutes  before  the  rifle 
cracked  again.  The  wheeling  bird  suddenly  struck  the 
wind  with  its  wings  aslant,  and  then  fell  like  a  plummet 
at  a  distance  which  showed  the  difficulty  of  the  feat. 
Falkner  started  from  her  side  before  the  bird  reached  the 
ground.  He  returned  to  her  after  a  lapse  of  a  few  mo 
ments,  bearing  a  trailing  wing  in  his  hand.  "You  shall 
make  your  choice,"  he  said  gayly. 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  killed  outright?" 

"Head  shot  off,"  said  Falkner  briefly. 

"And  besides,  the  fall  would  have  killed  it,"  said  Kate 
conclusively.  "It's  lovely.  I  suppose  they  call  you  a 
very  good  shot?" 

"They — who  ?" 

"Oh !  the  people  you  know  —  your  friends,  and  their 
sisters." 

"George  shoots  better  than  I  do,  and  has  had  more 
experience.  I've  seen  him  do  that  with  a  pistol.  Of 
course  not  such  a  long  shot,  but  a  more  difficult  one." 

Kate  did  not  reply,  but  her  face  showed  a  conviction 
that  as  an  artistic  and  gentlemanly  performance  it  was 
probably  inferior  to  the  one  she  had  witnessed.  Falkner, 
who  had  picked  up  the  hare  also,  again  took  his  place  by 
her  side,  as  they  turned  towards  the  house. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  you  came,  when  we  were 
walking  here,  you  pointed  out  that  rock  on  the  mountain 
where  the  poor  animals  had  taken  refuge  from  the  snow  ?" 
said  Kate  suddenly. 

"Yes,"  answered  Falkner;  "they  seem  to  have  dimin 
ished.  I  am  afraid  you  were  right ;  they  have  either  eaten 
each  other  or  escaped.  Let  us  hope  the  latter." 

"I  looked  at  them  with  a  glass  every  day,"  said  Kate, 
"and  they've  got  down  to  only  four.  There's  a  bear  and 


446  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

that  shabby,  over-grown  cat  you  call  a  California  lion,  and 
a  wolf,  and  a  creature  like  a  fox  or  a  squirrel." 

"It's  a  pity  they're  not  all  of  a  kind,"  said  Falkner. 

"Why  ?" 

"There'd  be  nothing  to  keep  them  from  being  comfort 
able  together." 

"On  the  contrary,  /  should  think  it  would  be  simply 
awful  to  be  shut  up  entirely  with  one's  own  kind." 

"Then  you  believe  it  is  possible  for  them,  with  their 
different  natures  and  habits,  to  be  happy  together?"  said 
Falkner,  with  sudden  earnestness. 

"I  believe,"  said  Kate  hurriedly,  "that  the  bear  and  the 
lion  find  the  fox  and  the  wolf  very  amusing,  and  that  the 
fox  and  the  wolf — " 

"Well?"  said  Falkner,  stopping  short. 

"Well,  the  fox  and  the  wolf  will  carry  away  a  much 
better  opinion  of  the  lion  and  bear  than  they  had  before." 

They  had  reached  the  house  by  this  time,  and  for  some 
occult  reason  Kate  did  not  immediately  enter  the  parlor, 
where  she  had  left  her  sister  and  the  invalid,  who  had 
already  been  promoted  to  a  sofa  and  a  cushion  by  the 
window,  but  proceeded  directly  to  her  own  room.  As  a 
manoeuvre  to  avoid  meeting  Mrs.  Hale,  it  was  scarcely 
necessary,  for  that  lady  was  already  in  advance  of  her 
on  the  staircase,  as  if  she  had  left  the  parlor  for  a  moment 
before  they  entered  the  house.  Falkner,  too,  would  have 
preferred  the  company  of  his  own  thoughts,  but  Lee,  ap 
parently  the  only  unpreoccupied,  all-pervading,  and  boy 
ishly  alert  spirit  in  the  party,  hailed  him  from  within,  and 
obliged  him  to  present  himself  on  the  threshold  of  the 
parlor  with  the  hare  and  hawk's  wing  he  was  still  carry 
ing.  Eying  the  latter  with  affected  concern,  Lee  said 
gravely:  "Of  course,  I  can  eat  it,  Ned,  and  I  dare  say 
it's  the  best  part  of  the  fowl,  and  the  hare  isn't  more  than 
enough  for  the  women,  but  I  had  no  idea  we  were  so  re 
duced.  Three  hours  and  a  half  gunning,  and  only  one 
hare  and  a  hawk's  wing.  It's  terrible." 

Perceiving  that  his  friend  was  alone,  Falkner  dropped 
his  burden  in  the  hall  and  strod^  rapidly  to  his  side. 
"Look  here,  George,  we  must,  /  must,  leave  this  place  at 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  447 

once.     It's  no  use  talking;  I  can  stand  this  sort  of  thing 
no  longer." 

"Nor  can  I,  with  the  door  open.  Shut  it,  and  say  what 
you  want  quick,  before  Mrs.  Hale  comes  back.  Have  you 
found  a  trail?" 

"No,  no;  that's  not  what  I  mean." 

"Well,  it  strikes  me  it  ought  to  be,  if  you  expect  to  get 
away.  Have  you  proposed  to  Beacon  Street,  and  she 
thinks  it  rather  premature  on  a  week's  acquaintance?" 

"No;  but—" 
."But  you  -will,  you  mean?    Don't,  just  yet." 

"But  I  cannot  live  this  perpetual  lie." 

"That  depends.  I  don't  know  how  you're  lying  when 
I'm  not  with  you.  If  you're  walking  round  with  that 
girl,  singing  hymns  and  talking  of  your  class  in  Sunday- 
school,  or  if  you're  insinuating  that  you're  a  millionaire, 
and  think  of  buying  the  place  for  a  summer  hotel,  I  should 
say  you'd  better  quit  that  kind  of  lying.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  your  dancing  round  here 
with  a  shot  gun,  and  yelling  for  Harkins's  blood,  or  count 
ing  that  package  of  greenbacks  in  the  lap  of  Miss  Scott, 
to  be  truthful.  It  seems  to  me  there  ought  to  be  some 
thing  between  the  two." 

"But,  George,  don't  you  think — you  are  on  such  good 
terms  with  Mrs.  Hale  and  her  mother — that  you  might 
tell  them  the  whole  story?  That  is,  tell  it  in  your  own 
way ;  they  will  hear  anything  from  you,  and  believe  it." 

"Thank  you;  but  suppose  I  don't  believe  in  lying, 
either?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean !  You  have  a  way,  d — n  it,  of 
making  everything  seem  like  a  matter  of  course,  and  the 
most  natural  thing  going." 

"Well,  suppose  I  did.     Are  you  prepared  for  the  worst?" 

Falkner  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  "Yes, 
anything  would  be  better  than  this  suspense." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  Then  you  would  be  willing 
to  have  them  forgive  us?" 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  mean  that  their  forgiveness  would  be  the  worst  thing 
that  could  happen.  Look  here,  Ned.  Stop  a  moment; 


448  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

listen  at  that  door.  Mrs.  Hale  has  the  tread  of  an  angel, 
with  the  pervading  capacity  of  a  cat.  Now  listen !  7 
don't  pretend  to  be  in  love  with  anybody  here,  but  if  I 
were  I  should  hardly  take  advantage  of  a  woman's  help 
lessness  and  solitude  with  a  sensational  story  about  my 
self.  It's  not  giving  her  a  fair  show.  You  know  she 
won't  turn  you  out  of  the  house." 

"No,"  said  Falkner,  reddening);  "but  I  should  expect  to 
go  at  once,  and  that  would  be  my  only  excuse  for  telling 
her." 

"Go!  where?  In  your  preoccupation  with  that  girl  you 
haven't  even  found  the  trail  by  which  Manuel  escaped. 
Do  you  intend  to  camp  outside  the  house,  and  make  eyes 
at  her  when  she  comes  to  the  window?" 

"Because  you  think  nothing  of  flirting  with  Mrs.  Hale," 
said  Falkner  bitterly,  "you  care  little — " 

"My  dear  Ned,"  said  Lee,  "the  fact  that  Mrs.  Hale  has 
a  husband,  and  knows  that  she  can't  marry  me,  puts  us 
on  equal  terms.  Nothing  that  she  could  learn  about 
me  hereafter  would  make  a  flirtation  with  me  any  less 
wrong  than  it  would  be  now,  or  make  her  seem  more 
a  victim.  Can  you  say  the  same  of  yourself  and  that 
Puritan  girl?" 

"But  you  did  not  advise  me  to  keep  aloof  from  her;  on 
the  contrary,  you — " 

"I  thought  you  might  make  the  best  of  the  situation, 
and  pay  her  some  attention,  because  you  could  not  go  any 
further." 

"You  thought  I  was  utterly  heartless  and  selfish,  like — " 

"Ned !" 

Falkner  walked  rapidly  to  the  fireplace,  and  returned. 

"Forgive  me,  George — I'm  a  fool — and  an  ungrateful 
one." 

Lee  did  not  reply  at  once,  although  he  took  and  retained 
the  hand  Falkner  had  impulsively  extended.  "Promise 
me,"  he  said  slowly,  after  a  pause,  "that  you  will  say 
nothing  yet  to  either  of  these  women.  I  ask  it  for  your 
own  sake,  and  this  girl's,  not  for  mine.  If,  on  the  con 
trary,  you  are  tempted  to  do  so  from  any  Quixotic  idea 
of  honor,  remember  that  you  will  only  precipitate  some- 


" 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  449 

thing  that  will  oblige  you,  from  that  same  sense  of  honor, 
to  separate  from  the  girl  forever." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Enough !"  said  he,  with  a  quick  return  of  his  old  reck 
less  gayety.  "Shoot-Off-His-Mouth — the  Beardless  Boy 
Chief  of  the  Sierras — has  spoken !  Let  the  Pale  Face 
with  the  black  moustache  ponder  and  beware  how  he  talks 
hereafter  to  the  Rippling  Cochituate  Water!  Go!" 

Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  upon 
Falkner,  Lee's  smile  vanished.  With  his  colorless  face 
turned  to  the  fading  light  at  the  window,  the  hollows  in 
his  temples  and  the  lines  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes  seemed 
to  have  grown  more  profound.  He  remained  motionless 
and  absorbed  in  thought  so  deep  that  the  light  rustle  of  a 
skirt,  that  would  at  other  times  have  thrilled  his  sensitive 
ear,  passed  unheeded.  At  last,  throwing  off  his  reverie 
with  the  full  and  unrestrained  sigh  of  a  man  who  believes 
himself  alone,  he  was  startled  by  the  soft  laugh  of  Mrs. 
Hale,  who  had  entered  the  room  unperceived. 

"Dear  me !  How  portentous !  Really,  I  almost  feel  as 
if  I  were  interrupting  a  tcte-a-tete  between  yourself  and 
some  old  flame.  I  haven't  heard  anything  so  old-fash 
ioned  and  conservative  as  that  sigh  since  I  have  been  in 
California.  I  thought  you  never  had  any  Past  out  here?" 

Fortunately  his  face  was  between  her  and  the  light,  and 
the  unmistakable  expression  of  annoyance  and  impatience 
which  was  passed  over  it  was  spared  her.  There  was, 
however,  still  enough  dissonance  in  his  manner  to  affect 
her  quick  feminine  sense,  and  when  she  drew  nearer  to 
him  it  was  with  a  certain  maiden-like  timidity. 

"You  are  not  worse,  Mr.  Lee,  I  hope?  You  have  not 
over-exerted  yourself?" 

"There's  little  chance  of  that  with  one  leg — if  not  in 
the  grave  at  least  mummified  with  bandages,"  he  replied, 
with  a  bitterness  new  to  him. 

"Shall  I  loosen  them?  Perhaps  they  are  too  tight. 
There  is  nothing  so  irritating  to  one  as  the  sensation  of 
being  tightly  bound." 

The  light  touch  of  her  hand  upon  the  rug  that  covered 
his  knees,  the  thoughtful  tenderness  of  the  blue-veined 

IS  v.  2 


450  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

lids,  and  the  delicate  atmosphere  that  seemed  to  surround 
her  like  a  perfume  cleared  his  face  of  its  shadow  and 
brought  back  the  reckless  fire  into  his  blue  eyes. 

"I  suppose  I'm  intolerant  of  all  bonds,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her  intently,  "in  others  as  well  as  myself !" 

Whether  or  not  she  detected  any  double  meaning  in  his 
words,  she  was  obliged  to  accept  the  challenge  of  his  direct 
gaze,  and,  raising  her  eyes  to  his,  drew  back  a  little  from 
him  with  a  slight  increase  of  color.  "I  was  afraid  you 
had  heard  bad  news  just  now." 

"What  would  you  call  bad  news?"  asked  Lee,  clasping 
his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  leaning  back  on  the  sofa, 
but  without  withdrawing  his  eyes  from  her  face. 

"Oh,  any  news  that  would  interrupt  your  convalesence, 
or  break  up  our  little  family  party,"  said  Mrs.  Hale. 
"You  have  been  getting  on  so  well  that  really  it  would 
seem  cruel  to  have  anything  interfere  with  our  life  of  for 
getting  and  being  forgotten.  But,"  she  added  with  appre 
hensive  quickness,  "has  anything  happened?  Is  there 
really  any  news  from — from  the  trails  ?  Yesterday  Mr. 
Falkner  said  the  snow  had  recommenced  in  the  pass.  Has 
he  seen  anything,  noticed  anything  different?" 

She  looked  so  very  pretty,  with  the  rare,  genuine,  and 
youthful  excitement  that  transfigured  her  wearied  and 
wearying  regularity  of  feature,  that  Lee  contented  himself 
with  drinking  in  her  prettiness  as  he  would  have  inhaled 
the  perfume  of  some  flower. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  so,  Mr.  Lee?"  she  asked,  with 
a  slight  smile.  "I  believe  something  has  happened.  Mr. 
Falkner  has  brought  you  some  intelligence." 

"He  has  certainly  found  out  something  I  did  not 
foresee." 

"And  that  troubles  you?" 

"It  does." 

"Is  it  a  secret?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  suppose  you  will  tell  it  to  me  at  dinner,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  tone  of  relief. 

"I  am  afraid,  if  I  tell  it  at  all,  I  must  tell  it  now,"  he 
said,  glancing  at  the  door. 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  451 

"You  must  do.  as  you  think  best,"  she  said  coldly,  "as  it 
seems  to  be  a  secret,  after  all."  She  hesitated.  "Kate  is 
dressing,  and  will  not  be  down  for  some  time." 

"So  much  the  better.  For  I'm  afraid  that  Ned  has 
made  a  poor  return  to  your  hospitality  by  falling  in  love 
with  her." 

"Impossible !     He  has  known  her  for  scarcely  a  week." 

"I  am  afraid  we  won't  agree  as  to  the  length  of  time 
necessary  to  appreciate  and  love  a  woman.  I  think  it 
can  be  done  in  seven  days  and  four  hours,  the  exact  time 
we  have  been  here." 

"Yes;  but  as  Kate  was  not  in  when  you  arrived,  and 
did  not  come  until  later,  you  must  take  off  at  least  one 
hour,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  gayly. 

"Ned  can.     /  shall  not  abate  a  second." 

"But  are  you  not  mistaken  in  his  feelings?"  she  con 
tinued  hurriedly.  "He  certainly  has  not  said  anything 
to  her." 

"That  is  his  last  hold  on  honor  and  reason.  And  to 
preserve  that  little  intact  he  wants  to  run  away  at  once." 

"But  that  would  be  very  silly." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  said,  looking  at  her  fixedly. 

"Why  not  ?"  she  asked  in  her  turn,  but  rather  faintly. 

"I'll  tell  you  why,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  with  a 
certain  intensity  of  passion  unlike  his  usual  boyish  light- 
heartedness.  "Think  of  a  man  whose  life  has  been  one 
of  alternate  hardness  and  aggression,  of  savage  disap 
pointment  and  equally  savage  successes,  who  has  known 
no  other  relaxation  than  dissipation  and  extravagance ;  a 
man  to  whom  the  idea  of  the  domestic  hearth  and  fam 
ily  ties  only  meant  weakness,  effeminacy,  or — worse ;  who 
had  looked  for  loyalty  and  devotion  only  in  the  man  who 
battled  for  him  at  his  right  hand  in  danger,  or  shared  his 
privations  and  sufferings.  Think  of  such  a  man,  and 
imagine  that  an  accident  has  suddenly  placed  him  in  an 
atmosphere  of  purity,  gentleness,  and  peace,  surrounded 
him  by  the  refinements  of  a  higher  life  than  he  had  ever 
known,  and  that  he  found  himself  as  in  a  dream,  on  terms 
of  equality  with  a  pure  woman  who  had  never  known  any 
other  life,  and  yet  would  understand  and  pity  his.  Im- 


452  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

agine  his  loving  her !  Imagine  that  the  first  effect  of  that 
love  was  to  show  him  his  own  inferiority  and  the  im 
measurable  gulf  that  lay  between  his  life  and  hers ! 
Would  he  not  fly  rather  than  brave  the  disgrace  of  her 
awakening  to  the  truth?  Would  he  not  fly  rather  than 
accept  even  the  pity  that  might  tempt  her  to  a  sacrifice  ?" 

"But— is  Mr.  Falkner  all  that?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  I  assure  you !"  said  he  demurely. 
"But  that's  the  way  a  man  in  love  feels." 

"Really !  Mr.  Falkner  should  get  you  to  plead  his 
cause  with  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  with  a  faint  laugh. 

"I  need  all  my  persuasive  powers  in  that  way  for  my 
self,"  said  Lee  boldly. 

Mrs.  Hale  rose.  "I  think  I  hear  Kate  coming,"  she 
said.  Nevertheless,  she  did  not  move  away.  "It  is  Kate 
coming,"  she  added  hurriedly,  stooping  to  pick  up  her 
work-basket,  which  had  slipped  with  Lee's  hand  from  her 
own. 

It  was  Kate,  who  at  once  flew  to  her  sister's  assistance, 
Lee  deploring  from  the  sofa  his  own  utter  inability  to  aid 
her.  "It's  all  my  fault,  too,"  he  said  to  Kate,  but  looking 
at  Mrs.  Hale.  "It  seems  I  have  a  faculty  of  upsetting 
existing  arrangements  without  the  power  of  improving 
them,  or  even  putting  them  back  in  their  places.  What 
shall  I  do?  I  am  willing  to  hold  any  number  of  skeins 
or  rewind  any  quantity  of  spools.  I  am  even  willing  to 
forgive  Ned  for  spending  the  whole  day  with  you,  and 
only  bringing  me  the  wing  of  a  hawk  for  supper." 

"That  was  all  my  folly,  Mr.  Lee,"  said  Kate,  with 
swift  mendacity;  "he  was  all  the  time  looking  after  some 
thing  for  you,  when  I  begged  him  to  shoot  a  bird  to  get 
a  feather  for  my  hat.  And  that  wing  is  so  pretty." 

"It  is  a  pity  that  mere  beauty  is  not  edible,"  said  Lee, 
gravely,  "and  that  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  here 
you  would  probably  prefer  me  to  Ned  and  his  moustachios, 
merely  because  I've  been  tied  by  the  leg  to  this  sofa  and 
slowly  fattened  like  a  Strasbourg  goose." 

Nevertheless,  his  badinage  failed  somehow  to  amuse 
Kate,  and  she  presently  excused  herself  to  rejoin  her  sis 
ter,  who  had  already  slipped  from  the  room.  For  the  first 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  453 

time  during  their  enforced  seclusion  a  sense  of  restraint 
and  uneasiness  affected  Mrs.  Hale,  her  sister,  and  Falkner 
at  dinner.  The  latter  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Scott, 
almost  entirely.  Mrs.  Hale  was  fain  to  bestow  an  ex 
ceptional  and  marked  tenderness  on  her  little  daughter 
Minnie,  who,  however,  by  some  occult  childish  instinct, 
insisted  upon  sharing  it  with  Lee — her  great  friend — to 
Mrs.  Hale's  uneasy  consciousness.  Nor  was  Lee  slow  to 
profit  by  the  child's  suggestion,  but  responded  with  certain 
vicarious  caresses  that  increased  the  mother's  embarrass 
ment.  That  evening  they  retired  early,  but  in  the  in 
tervals  of  a  restless  night  Kate  was  aware,  from  the 
sound  of  voices  in  the  opposite  room,  that  the  friends  were 
equally  wakeful. 

A  morning  of  bright  sunshine  and  soft  warm  air  did 
not,  however,  bring  any  change  to  their  new  and  con 
strained  relations.  It  only  seemed  to  offer  a  reason  for 
Falkner  to  leave  the  house  very  early  for  his  daily 
rounds,  and  gave  Lee  that  occasion  for  unaided  exercise 
with  an  extempore  crutch  on  the  veranda  which  allowed 
Mrs.  Hale  to  pursue  her  manifold  duties  without  the  ne 
cessity  of  keeping  him  company.  Kate  also,  as  if  to  avoid 
an  accidental  meeting  with  Falkner,  had  remained  at  home 
with  her  sister.  With  one  exception,  they  did  not  make 
their  guests  the  subject  of  their  usual  playful  comments, 
nor,  after  the  fashion  of  their  sex,  quote  their  ideas  and 
opinions.  That  exception  was  made  by  Mrs.  Hale. 

"You  have  had  no  difference  with  Mr.  Falkner?"  she 
said  carelessly. 

"No,"  said  Kate  quickly.     "Why?" 

"I  only  thought  he  seemed  rather  put  out  at  dinner  last 
night,  and  you  didn't  propose  to  go  and  meet  him  to-day." 

"He  must  be  bored  with  my  company  at  times,  I  dare 
say,"  said  Kate,  with  an  indifference  quite  inconsistent 
with  her  rising  color.  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  a 
little  vexed  with  Mr.  Lee's  chaffing  him  about  his  sport 
yesterday,  and  probably  intends  to  go  further  to-day,  and 
bring  home  larger  game.  I  think  Mr.  Lee  very  amusing 
always,  but  I  sometimes  fancy  he  lacks  feeling." 
"Feeling!  You  don't  know  him,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Hale 


454  SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S 

quickly.  She  stopped  herself,  but  with  a  half-smiling 
recollection  in  her  dropped  eyelids. 

"Well,  he  doesn't  look  very  amiable  now,  stamping  up 
and  down  the  veranda.  Perhaps  you'd  better  go  and 
soothe  him." 

"I'm  really  so  busy  just  now,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  with 
sudden  and  inconsequent  energy;  "things  have  got  dread 
fully  behind  in  the  last  week.  You  had  better  go,  Kate, 
and  make  him  sit  down,  or  he'll  be  overdoing  it.  These 
men  never  know  any  medium — in  anything." 

Contrary  to  Kate's  expectation,  Falkner  returned  earlier 
than  usual,  and,  taking  the  invalid's  arm,  supported  him  in 
a  more  ambitious  walk  along  the  terrace  before  the  house. 
They  were  apparently  absorbed  in  conversation,  but  the 
two  women  who  observed  them  from  the  window  could 
not  help  noticing  the  almost  feminine  tenderness  of  Falk- 
ner's  manner  towards  his  wounded  friend,  and  the  thought 
ful  tenderness  of  his  ministering  care. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  following  them  with  softly 
appreciative  eyes,  "if  women  are  capable  of  as  disinter 
ested  friendship  as  men?  I  never  saw  anything  like  the 
devotion  of  these  two  creatures.  Look !  if  Mr.  Falkner 
hasn't  got  his  arm  round  Mr.  Lee's  waist,  and  Lee,  with 
his  own  arm  over  Falkner's  neck,  is  looking  up  in  his  eyes. 
I  declare,  Kate,  it  almost  seems  an  indiscretion  to  look  at 
them." 

Kate,  however,  to  Mrs.  Hale's  indignation,  threw  her 
pretty  head  back  and  sniffed  the  air  contemptuously.  "I 
really  don't  see  anything  but  some  absurd  sentimentalism 
of  their  own,  or  some  mannish  wickedness  they're  con 
cocting  by  themselves.  I  am  by  no  means  certain,  Joseph 
ine,  that  Lee's  influence  over  that  young  man  is  the  best 
thing  for  him." 

"On  the  contrary !  Lee's  influence  seems  the  only  thing 
that  checks  his  waywardness,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  quickly. 
"Im  sure,  if  anyone  makes  sacrifices,  it  is  Lee ;  I  shouldn't 
wonder  that  even  now  he  is  making  some  concession  to 
Falkner,  and  all  those  caressing  ways  of  your  friend  are 
for  a  purpose.  They're  not  much  different  from  us,  dear." 

"Well,  7  wouldn't  stand  there  and  let  them  see  me  look- 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  455 

ing  at  them  as  if  I  couldn't  bear  them  out  of  my  sight 
for  a  moment,"  said  Kate,  whisking  herself  out  of 
the  room.  "They're  conceited  enough,  Heaven  knows, 
already." 

That  evening,  at  dinner,  however,  the  two  men  exhibited 
no  trace  of  the  restraint  or  uneasiness  of  the  previous  day. 
If  they  were  less  impulsive  and  exuberant,  they  were  still 
frank  and  interested,  and  if  the  term  could  be  used  in 
connection  with  men  apparently  trained  to  neither  self- 
control  nor  repose,  there  was  a  certain  gentle  dignity  in 
their  manner  which  for  the  time  had  the  effect  of  lifting 
them  a  little  above  the  social  level  of  their  entertainers. 
For  even  with  all  their  predisposition  to  the  strangers, 
Kate  and  Mrs.  Hale  had  always  retained  a  conscious  atti 
tude  of  gentle  condescension  and  superiority  towards  them 
— an  attitude  not  inconsistent  with  a  stronger  feeling,  nor 
altogether  unprovocative  of  it ;  yet  this  evening  they  found 
themselves  impressed  with  something  more  than  an  equal 
ity  in  the  men  who  had  amused  and  interested  them,  and 
they  were  perhaps  a  little  more  critical  and  doubtful  of 
their  own  power.  Mrs.  Hale's  little  girl,  who  had  ap 
preciated  only  the  seriousness  of  the  situation,  had  made 
her  own  application  of  it.  "Are  you  dow'in'  away  from 
aunt  Kate  and  mamma  ?"  she  asked,  in  an  interval  of 
silence. 

"How  else  can  I  get  you  the  red  snow  we  saw  at  sun 
set,  the  other  day,  on  the  peak  yonder?"  said  Lee  gayly. 
"I'll  have  to  get  up  some  morning  very  early,  and  catch 
it  when  it  comes  at  sunrise." 

"What  is  this  wonderful  snow,  Minnie,  that  you  are 
tormenting  Mr.  Lee  for?"  asked  Mrs.  Hale. 

"Oh !  it's  a  fairy  snow  that  he  told  me  all  about ;  it 
only  comes  when  the  sun  comes  up  and  goes  down,  and 
if  you  catch  ever  so  little  of  it  in  your  hand  it  makes 
all  you  fink  you  want  come  true !  Wouldn't  that  be  nice?" 
But  to  the  child's  astonishment  her  little  circle  of  auditors, 
even  while  assenting,  sighed. 

The  red  snow  was  there  plain  enough  the  next  morning 
before  the  valley  was  warm  with  light,  and  while  Minnie, 
her  mother,  and  aunt  Kate  were  still  peacefully  sleeping. 


456  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

And  Mr.  Lee  had  kept  his  word,  and  was  evidently  seeking 
it,  for  he  and  Falkner  were  already  urging  their  horses 
through  the  pass,  with  their  faces  towards  and  lit  up  by 
its  glow. 

CHAPTER  VIII 

KATE  was  stirring  early,  but  not  as  early  as  her  sister, 
who  met  her  on  the  threshold  of  her  room.  Her  face  was 
quite  pale,  and  she  held  a  letter  in  her  hand.  "What  does 
this  mean,  Kate?" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Kate,  her  own  color  fad 
ing  from  her  cheek. 

"They  are  gone — with  their  horses.  Left  before  day, 
and  left  this." 

She  handed  Kate  an  open  letter.  The  girl  took  it 
hurriedly,  and  read — 

"When  you  get  this  we  shall  be  no  more;  perhaps  not 
even  as  much.  Ned  found  the  trail  yesterday,  and  we  are 
taking  the  first  advantage  of  it  before  day.  We  dared  not 
trust  ourselves  to  say  'Good-by !'  last  evening;  we  were 
too  cowardly  to  face  you  this  morning;  we  must  go  as 
we  came,  without  warning,  but  not  without  regret.  We 
leave  a  package  and  a  letter  for  your  husband.  It  is 
not  only  our  poor  return  for  your  gentleness  and 
hospitality,  but,  since  it  was  accidentally  the  means  of 
giving  us  the  pleasure  of  your  society,  we  beg  you  to 
keep  it  in  safety  until  his  return.  We  kiss  your  mother's 
hands.  Ned  wants  to  say  something  more,  but  time 
presses,  and  I  only  allow  him  to  send  his  love  to  Minnie, 
and  to  tell  her  that  he  is  trying  to  find  the  red  snow. 

"GEORGE  LEE." 

"But  he  is  not  fit  to  travel,"  said  Mrs.  Hale.  "And  the 
trail — it  may  not  be  passable." 

"It  was  passable  the  day  before  yesterday,"  said  Kate 
drearily,  "for  I  discovered  it,  and  went  as  far  as  the 
buck-eyes." 

"Then  it  was  you  who  told  them  about  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Hale  reproachfully. 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  457 

"No,"  said  Kate  indignantly.  "Of  course  I  didn't." 
She  stopped,  and,  reading  the  significance  of  her  speech 
in  the  glistening  eyes  of  her  sister,  she  blushed.  Joseph 
ine  kissed  her,  and  said — 

"It  was  treating  us  like  children,  Kate,  but  we  must 
make  them  pay  for  it  hereafter.  For  that  package  and 
letter  to  John  means  something,  and  we  shall  probably  see 
them  before  long.  I  wonder  what  the  letter  is  about,  and 
what  is  in  the  package?" 

"Probably  one  of  Mr.  Lee's  jokes.  He  is  quite  capable 
of  turning  the  whole  thing  into  ridicule.  I  dare  say  he 
considers  his  visit  here  a  prolonged  jest." 

"With  his  poor  leg,  Kate?  You  are  as  unfair  to  him 
as  you  were  to  Falkner  when  they  first  came." 

Kate,  however,  kept  her  dark  eyebrows  knitted  in  a 
piquant  frown. 

"To  think  of  his  intimating  what  he  would  allow  Falk 
ner  to  say !  And  yet  you  believe  he  has  no  evil  influence 
over  the  young  man." 

Mrs.  Hale  laughed.  "Where  are  you  going  so  fast, 
Kate?"  she  called  mischievously,  as  the  young  lady 
flounced  out  of  the  room. 

"Where  ?  Why,  to  tidy  John's  room.  He  may  be  com 
ing  at  any  moment  now.  Or  do  you  want  to  do  it  your 
self?" 

"No,  no,"  returned  Mrs.  Hale  hurriedly;  "you  do  it. 
I'll  look  in  a  little  later  on." 

She  turned  away  with  a  sigh.  The  sun  was  shining 
brilliantly  outside.  Through  the  half-open  blinds  its  long 
shafts  seemed  to  be  searching  the  house  for  the  lost  guests, 
and  making  the  hollow  shell  appear  doubly  empty.  What 
a  contrast  to  the  dear  dark  days  of  mysterious  seclusion 
and  delicious  security,  lit  by  Lee's  laughter  and  the  spark 
ling  hearth,  which  had  passed  so  quickly!  The  forgot 
ten  outer  world  seemed  to  have  returned  to  the  house 
through  those  open  windows  and  awakened  its  dwellers 
from  a  dream. 

The  morning  seemed  interminable,  and  it  was  past  noon, 
while  they  were  deep  in  a  sympathetic  conference  with 
Mrs.  Scott,  who  had  drawn  a  pathetic  word-picture  of 


458  SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S 

the  two  friends  perishing  in  the  snow-drift,  without  flan 
nels,  brandy,  smelling-salts,  or  jelly,  which  they  had  for 
gotten,  when  they  were  startled  by  the  loud  barking  of 
"Spot"  on  the  lawn  before  the  house.  The  women  looked 
hurriedly  at  each  other. 

"They  have  returned,"  said  Mrs.  Hale. 

Kate  ran  to  the  window.  A  horseman  was  approach 
ing  the  house.  A  single  glance  showed  her  that  it  was 
neither  Falkner,  Lee,  nor  Hale,  but  a  stranger. 

"Perhaps  he  brings  some  news  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Scott 
quickly.  So  complete  had  been  their  preoccupation  with 
the  loss  of  their  guests  that  they  could  not  yet  conceive 
of  anything  that  did  not  pertain  to  it. 

The  stranger,  who  was  at  once  ushered  into  the  parlor, 
was  evidently  disconcerted  by  the  presence  of  the  three 
women. 

"I  reckoned  to  see  John  Hale  yer,"  he  began,  awk 
wardly. 

A  slight  look  of  disappointment  passed  over  their  faces. 
"He  has  not  yet  returned,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  briefly. 

"Sho !  I  wanter  know.  He's  hed  time  to  do  it,  I 
reckon,"  said  the  stranger. 

"I  suppose  he  hasn't  been  able  to  get  over  from  the 
Summit,"  returned  Mrs.  Hale.  "The  trail  is  closed." 

"It  ain't  now,  for  I  kem  over  it  this  mornin'  myself." 

"You  didn't — meet — anyone?"  asked  Mrs.  Hale  timidly, 
with  a  glance  at  the  others. 

"No." 

A  long  silence  ensued.  The  unfortunate  visitor  plainly 
perceived  an  evident  abatement  of  interest  in  himself,  yet 
he  still  struggled  politely  to  say  something.  "Then  I 
reckon  you  know  what  kept  Hale  away?"  he  said  du 
biously. 

"Oh,  certainly — the  stage  robbery." 

"I  wish  I'd  known  that,"  said  the  stranger  reflectively, 
"for  I  ez  good  ez  rode  over  jist  to  tell  it  to  ye.  Ye  see 
John  Hale,  he  sent  a  note  to  ye  'splainin'  matters  by  a 
gentleman ;  but  the  road  agents  tackled  that  man,  and  left 
him  for  dead  in  the  road." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  impatiently. 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  459 

"Luckily  he  didn't  die,  but  kem  to,  and  managed  to 
crawl  inter  the  brush,  whar  I  found  him  when  I  was 
lookin'  for  stock,  and  brought  him  to  my  house — " 

"You  found  him  ?     Your  house  ?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hale. 

"Inter  my  house,"  continued  the  man  doggedly.  "I'm 
Thompson  of  Thompson's  Pass  over  yon;  mebbe  it  ain't 
much  of  a  house;  but  I  brought  him  thar.  Well,  ez  he 
couldn't  find  the  note  that  Hale  had  guv  him,  and  like  ez 
not  the  road  agents  had  gone  through  him  and  got  it,  ez 
soon  ez  the  weather  let  up  I  made  a  break  over  yer  to 
tell  ye." 

"You  say  Mr.  Lee  came  to  your  house,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Hale,  "and  is  there  now?" 

"Not  much/'  said  the  man  grimly;  "and  I  never  said 
Lee  was  thar.  I  mean  that  Bilson  waz  shot  by  Lee  and 
kem—" 

"Certainly,  Josephine !"  said  Kate,  suddenly  stepping 
between  her  sister  and  Thompson,  and  turning  upon  her 
a  white  face  and  eyes  of  silencing  significance ;  "certainly 
— don't  you  remember? — that's  the  story  we  got  from  the 
Chinaman,  you  know,  only  muddled.  Go  on  sir,"  she 
continued,  turning  to  Thompson  calmly;  "you  say  that 
the  man  who  brought  the  note  from  my  brother  was  shot 
by  Lee?" 

"And  another  fellow  they  call  Falkner.  Yes,  that's 
about  the  size  of  it." 

"Thank  you;  it's  nearly  the  same  story  that  we  heard. 
But  you  have  had  a  long  ride,  Mr.  Thompson ;  let  me  offer 
you  a  glass  of  whiskey  in  the  dining-room.  This  way, 
please." 

The  door  closed  upon  them  none  too  soon.  For  Mrs. 
Hale  already  felt  the  room  whirling  around  her,  and  sank 
back  into  her  chair  with  a  hysterical  laugh.  Old  Mrs. 
Scott  did  not  move  from  her  seat,  but,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  door,  impatiently  waited  Kate's  return.  Neither 
spoke,  but  each  felt  that  the  young,  untried  girl  was  equal 
to  the  emergency,  and  would  get  at  the  truth. 

The  sound  of  Thompson's  feet  in  the  hall  and  the 
closing  of  the  front  door  was  followed  by  Kate's  reappear 
ance.  Her  face  was  still  pale,  but  calm. 


460  SNOW-BOUND    AT   EAGLE'S 

"Well  ?"  said  the  two  women  in  a  breath. 

"Well,"  returned  Kate  slowly ;  "Mr.  Lee  and  Mr.  Falk- 
ner  were  undoubtedly  the  two  men  who  took  the  paper 
from  John's  messenger  and  brought  it  here." 

"You  are  sure?"  said  Mrs.  Scott. 

"There  can  be  no  mistake,  mother." 

"Then"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  with  triumphant  feminine 
logic,  "I  don't  want  anything  more  to  satisfy  me  that 
they  are  perfectly  innocent!" 

More  convincing  than  the  most  perfect  masculine  de 
duction,  this  single  expression  of  their  common  nature 
sent  a  thrill  of  sympathy  and  understanding  through  each. 
They  cried  for  a  few  moments  on  each  other's  shoulders. 
"To  think/'  said  Mrs.  Scott,  "what  that  poor  boy  must 
have  suffered  to  have  been  obliged  to  do — that  to — 
to — Bilson — isn't  that  the  creature's  name  ?  I  suppose  we 
ought  to  send  over  there  and  inquire  after  him,  with  some 
chicken  and  jelly,  Kate.  It's  only  common  humanity,  and 
we  must  be  just,  my  dear;  for  even  if  he  shot  Mr.  Lee 
and  provoked  the  poor  boy  to  shoot  him,  he  may  have 
thought  it  his  duty.  And  then,  it  will  avert  suspicions." 

"To  think,"  murmured  Mrs.  Hale,  "what  they  must  have 
gone  through  while  they  were  here — momentarily  expect 
ing  John  to  come,  and  yet  keeping  up  such  a  light  heart." 

"I  belieye,  if  they  had  stayed  any  longer,  they  would 
have  told  us  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Scott. 

Both  the  younger  women  were  silent.  Kate  was  think 
ing  of  Falkner's  significant  speech  as  they  neared  the 
house  on  their  last  walk ;  Josephine  was  recalling  the  re 
morseful  picture  drawn  by  Lee,  which  she  knew  was  his 
own  portrait.  Suddenly  she  started. 

"But  John  will  be  here  soon ;  what  are  we  to  tell  him  ? 
And  then  that  package  and  that  letter." 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  tell  him  anything  at  present, 
my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Scott  gently.  "It  is  unfortunate 
this  Mr.  Thompson  called  here,  but  we  are  not  obliged 
to  understand  what  he  says  now  about  John's  message,  or 
to  connect  our  visitors  with  his  story.  I'm  sure,  Kate,  I 
should  have  treated  them  exactly  as  we  did  if  they  had 
come  without  any  message  from  John;  so  I  do  not  know 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  461 

why  we  should  lay  any  stress  on  that,  or  even  speak  of 
it.  The  simple  fact  is  that  we  have  opened  our  house  to 
two  strangers  in  distress.  Your  husband,"  continued  Mr. 
Hale's  mother-in-law,  "does  not  require  to  know  more. 
As  to  the  letter  and  package,  we  will  keep  that  for  further 
consideration.  It  cannot  be  of  much  importance,  or  they 
would  have  spoken  of  it  before;  it  is  probably  some 
trifling  present  as  a  return  for  your  hospitality.  I  should 
use  no  indecorous  haste  in  having  it  opened." 

The  two  women  kissed  Mrs.  Scott  with  a  feeling  of 
relief,  and  fell  back  into  the  monotony  of  their  household 
duties.  It  is  to  be  feared,  however,  that  the  absence  of 
their  outlawed  guests  was  nearly  as  dangerous  as  their 
presence  in  the  opportunity  it  afforded  for  uninterrupted 
and  imaginative  reflection.  Both  Kate  and  Josephine 
were  at  first  shocked  and  wounded  by  the  discovery  of  the 
real  character  of  the  two  men  with  whom  they  had  as 
sociated  so  familiarly,  but  it  was  no  disparagement  to 
their  sense  of  propriety  to  say  that  the  shock  did  not  last 
long,  and  was  accompanied  with  the  fascination  of  danger. 
This  was  succeeded  by  a  consciousness  of  the  delicate 
flattery  implied  in  their  indirect  influence  over  the  men 
who  had  undoubtedly  risked  their  lives  for  the  sake  of  re 
maining  with  them.  The  best  woman  is  not  above  being 
touched  by  the  effect  of  her  power  over  the  worst  man, 
and  Kate  at  first  allowed  herself  to  think  of  Falkner  in 
that  light.  But  if  in  her  later  reflections  he  suffered  as  a 
heroic  experience  to  be  forgotten,  he  gained  something  as 
an  actual  man  to  be  remembered.  Now  that  the  proposed 
rides  from  "his  friend's  house"  were  a  part  of  the  illusion, 
would  he  ever  dare  to  visit  them  again  ?  Would  she  dare 
to  see  him?  She  held  her  breath  with  a  sudden  pain  of 
parting  that  was  new  to  her;  she  tried  to  think  of  some 
thing  else,  to  pick  up  the  scattered  threads  of  her  life  be 
fore  that  eventful  day.  But  in  vain ;  that  one  week  had 
filled  the  place  with  implacable  memories,  or  more  terrible, 
as  it  seemed  to  her  and  her  sister,  they  had  both  lost  their 
feeble,  alien  hold  upon  Eagle's  Court  in  the  sudden 
presence  of  the  real  genii  of  these  solitudes,  and  hence 
forth  they  alone  would  be  the  strangers  there.  They 


462  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

scarcely  dared  to  confess  it  to  each  other,  but  this  return 
to  the  dazzling  sunlight  and  cloudless  skies  of  the  past 
appeared  to  them  to  be  the  one  unreal  experience;  they 
had  never  known  the  true  wild  flavor  of  their  home,  ex 
cept  in  that  week  of  delicious  isolation.  Without  breath 
ing  it  aloud,  they  longed  for  some  vague  denoument  to 
this  experience  that  should  take  them  from  Eagle's  Court 
forever. 

It  was  noon  the  next  day  when  the  little  household  be 
held  the  last  shred  of  their  illusion  vanish  like  the  melting 
snow  in  the  strong  sunlight  of  John  Hale's  return.  He 
was  accompanied  by  Colonel  Clinch  and  Rawlins,  two 
strangers  to  the  women.  Was  it  fancy,  or  the  avenging 
spirit  of  their  absent  companions?  but  he  too  looked  a 
stranger,  and  as  the  little  cavalcade  wound  its  way  up 
the  slope  he  appeared  to  sit  his  horse  and  wear  his  hat 
with  a  certain  slouch  and  absence  of  his  usual  restraint 
that  strangely  shocked  them.  Even  the  old  half-conde 
scending,  half-punctilious  gallantry  of  his  greeting  of  his 
wife  and  family  was  changed,  as  he  introduced  his  com 
panions  with  a  mingling  of  familiarity  and  shyness  that 
was  new  to  him.  Did  Mrs.  Hale  regret  it,  or  feel  a  sense 
of  relief  in  the  absence  of  his  usual  seignorial  formality? 
She  only  knew  that  she  was  grateful  for  the  presence  of 
the  strangers,  which  for  the  moment  postponed  a  matri 
monial  confidence  from  which  she  shrank. 

"Proud  to  know  you,"  said  Colonel  Clinch,  with  a  sud 
den  outbreak  of  the  antique  gallantry  of  some  remote 
Huguenot  ancestor.  "My  friend,  Judge  Hale,  must  be  a 
regular  Roman  citizen  to  leave  such  a  family  and  such 
a  house  at  the  call  of  public  duty.  Eh,  Rawlins  ?" 

"You  bet,"  said  Rawlins,  looking  from  Kate  to  her 
sister  in  undisguised  admiration. 

"And  I  suppose  the  duty  could  not  have  been  a  very 
pleasant  one/'  said  Mrs.  Hale,  timidly,  without  looking 
at  her  husband. 

"Gad,  madam,  that's  just  it,"  said  the  gallant  Colonel, 
seating  himself  with  a  comfortable  air,  and  an  easy, 
though  by  no  means  disrespectful,  familiarity.  "We  went 
into  this  fight  a  little  more  than  a  week  ago.  The  only 


SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S  463 

scrimmage  we've  had  has  been  with  the  detectives  that 
were  on  the  robbers'  track.  Ha !  ha !  The  best  people 
we've  met  have  been  the  friends  of  the  men  we  were 
huntin',  and  we've  generally  come  to  the  conclusion  to 
vote  the  other  ticket !  Ez  Judge  Hale  and  me  agreed  ez 
we  came  along,  the  two  men  ez  we'd  most  like  to  see 
just  now  and  shake  hands  with  are  George  Lee  and 
Ned  Falkner." 

"The  two  leaders  of  the  party  who  robbed  the  coach," 
explained  Mr.  Hale,  with  a  slight  return  of  his  usual  pre- 
.cision  of  statement. 

The  three  women  looked  at  each  other  with  a  blaze  of 
thanksgiving  in  their  grateful  eyes.  Without  compre 
hending  all  that  Colonel  Clinch  had  said,  they  understood 
enough  to  know  that  their  late  guests  were  safe  from  the 
pursuit  of  that  party,  and  that  their  own  conduct  was 
spared  criticism.  I  hardly  dare  write  it,  but  they  instantly 
assumed  the  appearance  of  aggrieved  martyrs,  and  felt  as 
if  they  were ! 

"Yes,  ladies !"  continued  the  Colonel,  inspired  by  the 
bright  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  "We  haven't  taken  the  road 
ourselves  yet,  but — pohn  honor — we  wouldn't  mind  doing 
it  in  a  case  like  this."  Then  with  the  fluent,  but  some 
what  exaggerated,  phraseology  of  a  man  trained  to 
"stump"  speaking,  he  gave  an  account  of  the  robbery  and 
his  own  connection  with  it.  He  spoke  of  the  swindling 
and  treachery  which  had  undoubtedly  provoked  Falkner 
to  obtain  restitution  of  his  property  by  an  overt  act  of 
violence  under  the  leadership  of  Lee.  He  added  that  he 
had  learned  since  at  Wild  Cat  Station  that  Harkins  had 
fled  the  country,  that  a  suit  had  been  commenced  by  the 
Excelsior  Ditch  Company,  and  that  all  available  property 
of  Harkins  had  been  seized  by  the  sheriff. 

"Of  course  it  can't  be  proved  yet,  but  there's  no  doubt 
in  my  mind  that  Lee,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  Ned  Falk- 
ner's,  got  up  that  job  to  help  him,  and  that.  Ned's  off 
with  the  money  by  this  time — and  I'm  right  glad  of  it. 
I  can't  say  ez  we've  done  much  towards  it,  except  to  keep 
tumbling  in  the  way  of  that  detective  party  of  Stanner's, 
and  so  throw  them  off  the  trail — ha,  ha !  The  Judge  here, 


464:  SNOW-BOUND   AT   EAGLE'S 

I  reckon,  has  had  his  share  of  fun,  for  while  he  was  at 
Hennicker's  trying  to  get  some  facts  from  Hennicker's 
pretty  daughter,  Stanner  tried  to  get  up  some  sort  of  vig 
ilance  committee  of  the  stage  passengers  to  burn  down 
Hennicker's  ranch  out  of  spite,  but  the  Judge  here  stepped 
in  and  stopped  that." 

"It  was  really  a  high-handed  proceeding,  Josephine,  but 
I  managed  to  check  it,"  said  Hale,  meeting  somewhat  con 
sciously  the  first  direct  look  his  wife  had  cast  upon  him, 
and  falling  back  for  support  on  his  old  manner.  "In  its 
way,  I  think  it  was  worse  than  the  robbery  by  Lee  and 
Falkner,  for  it  was  done  in  the  name  of  law  and  order; 
while,  as  far  as  I  can  judge  from  the  facts,  the  affair  that 
we  were  following  up  was  simply  a  rude  and  irregular 
restitution  of  property  that  had  been  morally  stolen." 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  did  quite  right,  though  I  don't  un 
derstand  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  languidly;  "but  I  trust  these 
gentlemen  will  stay  to  luncheon,  and  in  the  meantime 
excuse  us  for  running  away,  as  we  are  short  of  servants, 
and  Manuel  seems  to  have  followed  the  example  of  the 
head  of  the  house  and  left  us,  in  pursuit  of  somebody  or 
something." 

When  the  three  women  had  gained  the  vantage-ground 
of  the  drawing-room,  Kate  said,  earnestly,  "As  it's  all 
right,  hadn't  we  better  tell  him  now?" 

"Decidedly  not,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  imperatively. 
"Do  you  suppose  they  are  in  a  hurry  to  tell  us  their  whole 
story?  Who  are  those  Hennicker  people?  and  they  were 
there  a  week  ago !" 

"And  did  you  notice  John's  hat  when  he  came  in,  and 
the  vulgar  familiarity  of  calling  him  'Judge'?"  said  Mrs. 
Hale. 

"Well,  certainly  anything  like  the  familiarity  of  this 
man  Clinch  7  never  saw,"  said  Kate.  "Contrast  his  man 
ner  with  Mr.  Falkner's." 

At  luncheon  the  three  suffering  martyrs  finally  suc 
ceeded  in  reducing  Hale  and  his  two  friends  to  an  attitude 
of  vague  apology.  But  their  triumph  was  short-lived. 
At  the  end  of  the  meal  they  were  startled  by  the  trampling 
of  hoofs  without,  followed  by  loud  knocking,  In  another 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  465 

moment  the  door  was  opened,  and  Mr.  Stanner  strode  into 
the  room.  Hale  rose  with  a  look  of  indignation. 

"I  thought,  as  Mr.  Stanner  understood  that  I  had  no 
desire  for  his  company  elsewhere,  he  would  hardly  venture 
to  intrude  upon  me  in  my  house,  and  certainly  not 
after—" 

"Ef  you're  alluding  to  the  Vigilantes  shakin'  you  and 
Zeenie  up  at  Hennicker's,  you  can't  make  me  responsible 
for  that.  I'm  here  now  on  business — you  understand — 
reg'lar  business.  Ef  you  want  to  see  the  papers  yer  ken. 
I  suppose  you  know  what  a  warrant  is?" 

"I  know  what  you  are,"  said  Hale  hotly;  "and  if  you 
don't  leave  my  house — " 

"Steady,  boys,"  interrupted  Stanner,  as  his  five  hench 
men  filed  into  the  hall.  "There's  no  backin'  down  here, 
Colonel  Clinch,  unless  you  and  Hale  kalkilate  to  back 
down  the  State  of  Californy !  The  matter  stands  like 
this.  There's  a  half-breed  Mexican,  called  Manuel,  ar 
rested  over  at  the  Summit,  who  swears  he  saw  George 
Lee  and  Edward  Falkner  in  this  house  the  night  after 
the  robbery.  He  says  that  they  were  makin'  themselves 
at  home  here,  as  if  they  were  among  friends,  and  con- 
siderin'  the  kind  of  help  we've  had  from  Mr.  John  Hale, 
it  looks  ez  if  it  might  be  true." 

"It's  an  infamous  lie !"  said  Hale. 

"It  may  be  true,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  suddenly  step 
ping  in  front  of  her  pale-cheeked  daughters.  "A  wounded 
man  was  brought  here  out  of  the  storm  by  his  friend,  who 
claimed  the  shelter  of  your  roof.  As  your  mother  I  should 
have  been  unworthy  to  stay  beneath  it  and  have  denied 
that  shelter  or  withheld  it  until  I  knew  his  name  and  what 
he  was.  He  stayed  here  until  he  could  be  removed.  He 
left  a  letter  for  you.  It  will  probably  tell  you  if  he  was 
the  man  this  person  is  seeking." 

"Thank  you,  mother,"  said  Hale,  lifting  her  hand  to 
his  lips  quietly;  "and  perhaps  you  will  kindly  tell  these 
gentlemen  that,  as  your  son  does  not  care  to  know  who  or 
what  the  stranger  was,  there  is  no  necessity  for  opening 
the  letter,  or  keeping  Mr.  Stanner  a  moment  longer." 

"But  you  will  oblige  me,  John,  by  opening  it  before 
16  VOL.  2 


466  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

these  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  recovering  her  voice 
and  color.  "Please  to  follow  me,"  she  said  preceding 
them  to  the  staircase. 

They  entered  Mr.  Hale's  room,  now  restored  to  its 
original  condition.  On  the  table  lay  a  letter  and  a  small 
package.  The  eyes  of  Mr.  Stanner,  a  little  abashed  by 
the  attitude  of  the  two  women,  fastened  upon  it  and 
glistened. 

Josephine  handed  her  husband  the  letter.  He  opened  it 
in  breathless  silence  and  read — 

"JOHN  HALE, 

"We  owe  you  no  return  for  voluntarily  making  yourself 
a  champion  of  justice  and  pursuing  us,  except  it  was  to 
offer  you  a  fair  field  and  no  favor.  We  didn't  get  that 
much  from  you,  but  accident  brought  us  into  your  house 
and  into  your  family,  where  we  did  get  it,  and  were  fairly 
vanquished.  To  the  victors  belong  the  spoils.  We  leave 
the  package  of  greenbacks  which  we  took  from  Colonel 
Clinch  in  the  Sierra  coach,  but  which  was  first  stolen  by 
Harkins  from  forty-four  shareholders  of  the  Excelsior 
Ditch.  We  have  no  right  to  say  what  you  should  do  with 
it,  but  if  you  aren't  tired  of  following  the  same  line  of 
justice  that  induced  you  to  run  after  us,  you  will  try  to 
restore  it  to  its  rightful  owners. 

"We  leave  you  another  trifle  as  an  evidence  that  our 
intrusion  into  your  affairs  was  not  without  some  service 
to  you,  even  if  the  service  was  as  accidental  as  the  in 
trusion.  You  will  find  a  pair  of  boots  in  the  corner  of 
your  closet.  They  were  taken  from  the  burglarious  feet 
of  Manuel,  your  peon,  who,  believing  the  three  ladies  were 
alone  and  at  his  mercy,  entered  your  house  with  an  ac 
complice  at  two  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  21  st,  and 
was  kicked  out  by 

"Your  obedient  servants, 

"GEORGE  LEE  &  EDWARD  FALKNER." 

Hale's  voice  and  color  changed  on  reading  this  last 
paragraph.  He  turned  quickly  towards  his  wife;  Kate 
flew  to  the  closet,  where  the  muffled  boots  of  Manuel  con- 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  467 

fronted  them.  "We  never  knew  it.  I  always  suspected 
something  that  night,"  said  Mrs.  Hale  and  Mrs.  Scott  in 
the  same  breath. 

"That's  all  very  well,  and  like  George  Lee's  high 
falutin',"  said  Stanner,  approaching  the  table,  "but  as 
long  ez  the  greenbacks  are  here  he  can  make  what  capital 
he  likes  outer  Manuel.  I'll  trouble  you  to  pass  over  that 
package." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Hale,  "but  I  believe  this  is  the  pack 
age  taken  from  Colonel  Clinch.  Is  it  not?"  he  added,  ap 
pealing  to  the  Colonel. 

"It  is,"  said  Clinch. 

"Then  take  it,"  said  Hale,  handing  him  the  package. 
"The  first  restitution  is  to  you,  but  I  believe  you  will  fulfil 
Lee's  instructions  as  well  as  myself." 

"But,"  said  Stanner,  furiously  interposing,  "I've  a  war 
rant  to  seize  that  wherever  found,  and  I  dare  you  to  dis 
obey  the  law." 

"Mr.  Stanner,"  said  Clinch,  slowly,  "there  are  ladies 
present.  If  you  insist  upon  having  that  package  I  must 
ask  them  to  withdraw,  and  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  me  better 
prepared  to  resist  a  second  robbery  than  I  was  the  first. 
Your  warrant,  which  was  taken  out  by  the  Express  Com 
pany,  is  supplanted  by  civil  proceedings  taken  the  day 
before  yesterday  against  the  property  of  the  fugitive 
swindler  Harkins !  You  should  have  consulted  the  sheriff 
before  you  came  here." 

Stanner  saw  his  mistake.  But  in  the  faces  of  his  grin 
ning  followers  he  was  obliged  to  keep  up  his  bluster. 
"You  shall  hear  from  me  again,  sir,"  he  said,  turning  on 
his  heel. 

"I 'beg  your  pardon,"  said  Clinch  grimly,  "but  do  I  un 
derstand  that  at  last  I  am  to  have  the  honor — " 

"You  shall  hear  from  the  Company's  lawyers,  sir,"  said 
Stanner,  turning  red,  and  noisily  leaving  the  room. 

"And  so,  my  dear  ladies,"  said  Colonel  Clinch,  "you  have 
spent  a  week  with  a  highwayman.  I  say  a  highwayman, 
for  it  would  be  hard  to  call  my  young  friend  Falkner  by 
that  name  for  his  first  offence,  committed  under  great 
provocation,  and  undoubtedly  instigated  by  Lee,  who  was 


468  SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S 

an  old  friend  of  his,  and  to  whom  he  came,  no  doubt,  in 
desperation." 

Kate  stole  a  triumphant  glance  at  her  sister,  who 
dropped  her  lids  over  her  glistening  eyes.  "And  this  Mr. 
Lee,"  she  continued  more  gently,  "is  he  really  a  high 
wayman  ?" 

"George  Lee,"  said  Clinch,  settling  himself  back  orator- 
ically  in  his  chair,  "my  dear  young  lady,  is  a  highway 
man,  but  not  of  the  common  sort.  He  is  a  gentleman 
born,  madam,  comes  from  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  the 
Eastern  Shore  of  Maryland.  He  never  mixes  himself  up 
with  anything  but  some  of  the  biggest  strikes,  and  he's  an 
educated  man.  He  is  very  popular  with  ladies  and  chil 
dren;  he  was  never  known  to  do  or  say  anything  that 
could  bring  a  blush  to  the  cheek  of  beauty  or  a  tear  to  the 
eye  of  innocence.  I  think  I  may  say  I'm  sure  you  found 
him  so." 

"I  shall  never  believe  him  anything  but  a  gentleman," 
said  Mrs.  Scott,  firmly. 

"If  he  has  a  defect,  it  is  perhaps  a  too  reckless  in 
dulgence  in  draw  poker,"  said  the  Colonel,  musingly ;  "not 
unbecoming  a  gentleman,  understand  me,  Mrs.  Scott,  but 
perhaps  too  reckless  for  his  own  good.  George  played  a 
grand  game,  a  glittering  game,  but  pardon  me  if  I  say  an 
uncertain  game.  I've  told  him  so ;  it's  the  only  point  on 
which  we  ever  differed." 

"Then  you  know  him  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hale,  lifting  her  soft 
eyes  to  the  Colonel. 

"I  have  that  honor." 

"Did  his  appearance,  Josephine,"  broke  in  Hale,  some 
what  ostentatiously,  "appear  to — er — er — correspond  with 
these  qualities?  You  know  what  I  mean." 

"He  certainly  seemed  very  simple  and  natural,"  said 
Mrs.  Hale,  slightly  drawing  her  pretty  lips  together.  "He 
did  not  wear  his  trousers  rolled  up  over  his  boots  in 
the  company  of  ladies,  as  you're  doing  now,  nor  did  he 
make  his  first  appearance  in  this  house  with  such  a  hat 
as  you  wore  this  morning,  or  I  should  not  have  admitted 
him." 

There  were  a  few  moments  of  embarrassing  silence. 


SNOW-BOUND    AT    EAGLE'S  469 

"Do  you  intend  to  give  that  package  to  Mr.  Falkner 
yourself,  Colonel?"  asked  Mrs.  Scott. 

"I  shall  hand  it  over  to  the  Excelsior  Company,"  said 
the  Colonel,  "but  I  shall  inform  Ned  of  what  I  have  done." 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Scott,  "will  you  kindly  take  a  mes 
sage  from  us  to  him?" 

"If  you  wish  it." 

"You  will  be  doing  me  a  great  favor,  Colonel,"  said 
Hale,  politely. 

Whatever  the  message  was,  six  months  later  it  brought 
Edward  Falkner,  the  reestablished  superintendent  of  the 
Excelsior  Ditch,  to  Eagle's  Court.  As  he  and  Kate  stood 
again  on  the  plateau,  looking  towards  the  distant  slopes 
once  more  green  with  verdure,  Falkner  said — 

"Everything  here  looks  as  it  did  the  first  day  I  saw  it, 
except  your  sister." 

"The  place  does  not  agree  with  her,"  said  Kate  hur 
riedly.  "That  is  why  my  brother  thinks  of  leaving  it 
before  the  winter  sets  in." 

"It  seems  so  sad,"  said  Falkner,  "for  the  last  words  poor 
George  said  to  me,  as  he  left  to  join  his  cousin's  corps  at 
Richmond,  were :  'If  I'm  not  killed,  Ned,  I  hope  some  day 
to  stand  again  beside  Mrs.  Hale,  at  the  window  in  Eagle's 
Court,  and  watch  you  and  Kate  coming  home  !'  " 


DATE  DUE 


DINTED  IN  U    S    A 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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A  A      000307782   3 


